


Snowed in at Heathrow and Other Christmas Disasters.

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2012-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:18:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the weather conditions work a little like fate. And sometimes you find love in the most improbable circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowed in at Heathrow and Other Christmas Disasters.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Fuzzytomato02 for merlin-holidays. (ii) Thanks to the lovely Fleete for her insightful and thorough beta-read and the banner. You're as sweet as Eggnog with chocolate sprinkled on top.

"Are you sure?" Freya asks. She's sitting on his desk, too close to Merlin's precariously perched Macbook for comfort. "We've been inundated by complaints."

Merlin holds up both his hands in a defensive gesture. "The app's working. I tested the unit and the whole system. I answered the most serious forum users, not the ones who can't find the sign-in button, and they won't be complaining." He smiles widely. "Really, Freya," he says, "it's all running smoothly now, and it's the 23rd."

"Well, I'd wish you happy holidays if I was sure it won't all go to hell again," Freya says, tapping her pencil against the desk. "The number of hits triples during the holidays, and we can't really do without our best web designer."

Merlin pats her hand and amps up the volume of the song he's had as background on his VLC player. The notes of _Auld Lang Syne_ fill the office.

Two of Merlin's colleagues clap and one shouts, "Way to infuse the proper seasonal spirit, Merlin." Cedric turns up his nose in disgust and another co-worker puts ear buds in his ears to tune Merlin's music out.

Merlin lowers the volume.

Freya just looks at him in that long suffering way of hers.

"Look at this incoming message," says Merlin, moving the mouse and clicking on a forum sub-thread. "Love the new feature. Kudos for making it work on Opera," he quotes. Merlin hits print and when the printer coughs out the sheet, Merlin holds it up for Freya's inspection. "See, everything's under control. I have a plane in seven hours, Frey. Thanks to all this holiday bustle, I'll be lucky if it takes me an hour to get home. Then I'll have to pack and make it to Heathrow. Please?" Merlin bats his eyelashes and then hurries to add, "I spent the whole of yesterday night in here patching up Mordred's coding mistakes."

Freya pats Merlin on the top of his head and ruffles his hair. "All right," she says. "I was only nervous because our paper's gonna be bought out by a finance mogul I don't trust one bit. Annis is worried, though her strong editor front hasn't given yet. You can go and enjoy your holiday."

Merlin rises, switches off his two computers, and puts on his padded jacket. "Thank you."

Freya tuts and wraps Merlin's scarf around his neck, making two loops. "I want to be sure you won't catch a chill. It's been snowing all morning and it's subpolar out there."

Merlin reddens, feeling all eyes on him. Freya coddles him way too much. "Why, thank you," he says and draws himself up a bit, "but I'm way tougher than I look."

Freya smiles sweetly. "I know," she says. "I'm just looking out for you. I hope you're going somewhere warm."

Merlin plays with the ends of his scarf. "Well, not exactly," he says, grinning and picturing the sights he would see. "Switzerland. Gwaine booked me this holiday package he got cheap on e-dreams. I'm going to spend Christmas and the New Year there."

As Merlin piles up his two laptops one on top of the other and puts them in his messenger bag, Freya asks, "And who are you going with?"

Merlin doesn't miss the raised eyebrow or the nudging tone. He laughs and waves his hands about. "None of that. It's not that kind of a holiday." He's thought about pulling someone just for the occasion, and Gwaine had certainly suggested he do so, inviting him to the club he works at, offering him special passes and a go at the VIP area, but Merlin would rather share this holiday – the first in quite some time – with someone he genuinely likes. "Will's coming. His girlfriend has to spend the holidays at home in Gloucestershire and he's on the loose."

Freya is shaking with gentle laughter. "Poor Merlin, saddled with Will. Maybe you'll find a nice boy to kiss on New Year's Eve."

Merlin shakes his head in denial. "Nah," he says, nose wrinkling. "That kind of thing only happens in films or to other people."

Freya sidles closer as Merlin shoulders his bag. "Hey, none of that defeatist talk," she murmurs in his ear. "You're quite a catch."

Merlin's lips twist up a little. He pulls on the strap of his bag and puffs his chest out. "What defeatist talk? I'm very handsome in a non-muscly, completely understated way." He grins though this isn't one of his best grins.

Freya slaps his chest. "I'm serious, Merlin," she says. "You're sweet and clever and amazingly thoughtful."

There's not much Merlin can say to that without sounding either too much in need of comfort or obnoxiously smug, so he just taps the glass of his blue Ice Watch and says, "Really got to go now. I'll have to face Paddington on the day before Christmas Eve and I'd like to buy an extra sized Cornish Pasty on the way."

"Just go," says Freya and Merlin does, waving on his way out. So as to gain on the lost time he skips the lift, which always takes too long to respond, and opts for the stairs. He's taking them two at a time and nearly slips twice.

One of the first floor editors calls out to him, "Watch out, Merlin. You don't want to spend Christmas in hospital, do you?"

Merlin doesn't stop and chirps out a flying answer. "Absolutely not! Zurich's waiting for me."

Despite his confidence, he does stumble and slip on a frozen section of pavement right outside the newspaper offices. He ends up arse first on the chilly pavement, snowflakes crowning his head and settling on his nose. Despite the momentary shock, he pats himself down and finds that he's all right. He's broken nothing.

An old gentleman stops by and asks, "Are you all right, young man?"

Merlin smiles tentatively as the old man helps him up. "Yeah."

"Rotten weather."

"Yeah," Merlin agrees as he checks himself for damage once more. The back of his jeans is all wet and the cold is creeping into his bones, but everything else is okay. "Thank you, though."

"It's nothing," the old man says. "I was glad to be of help. But this is crap weather, so you'd better get home."

Merlin makes sure his laptops weren't damaged in the fall – they seem to have survived – and says, "Oh, no. I'm off on holiday."

"Good luck, then," the old man says. "I hope you can get where you need to be."

Still hollering his good-bye, Merlin dashes off towards the nearest tube station only to hear the announcer say, "Due to a signal failure, the Northern Line is partly suspended with no service between..."

"Crap," Merlin says, as he fishes his oyster card out of his wallet and waves it a little manically at the turnstile.

****

Leon is bent over Arthur's desk, leafing through the pages of the various documents stacked on Arthur's desk and pointing to the dotted lines so Arthur can sign. Leon has already gone through all the ins and outs of those files but Arthur can't stop from asking, "We have an agreement with Suntech in place; this won't be implemented till the second quarter, right?"

"Nothing has changed from the draft."

"Good," says Arthur signing with a flourish. "And all the papers for the buy-out of Blackday Publishing and the Evening Gazette are ready, I think?"

"Yes," says Leon, turning another page for Arthur. "But we sounded the board and there were a few unhappy members. Especially as regards the Evening Gazette's acquisition. They think..."

"--that the Gazette's revenues have declined and that they've gone through some losses," Arthur says a little tiredly. He puts down his pen and rubs the bridge of his nose. "I went through all the data myself and I still find that their equity value is more than enough and their ads revenue is promising. Aside from that they are read by a wide group of people, which is very attractive when it comes to selling ad spaces."

Leon puts all the signed papers into one column, parting them from the stack of to-be-signed ones. "Arthur, I didn't mean to add fuel to that."

"But," says uncle Agravaine, walking in and leaning against the door to Arthur's office, "you should have made all that clearer to the board."

"I mean to strengthen the newspaper’s competitiveness," says Arthur quickly. "I explained my views."

"As a king would," says Agravaine in a soft voice. He's lifting his eyebrows. "You get that from your father. I would recommend a softer approach."

Leon places a hand on Arthur's shoulder in a gesture Arthur can't quite make heads or tails of. "I--" he starts but Leon interrupts him. "Sign the last three. Percival's got the car ready for you downstairs."

Arthur swivels in his chair and looks up at Leon. "Perhaps I should stay and call a board meeting for tomorrow."

"Arthur," says Leon, trying to hide the initial gaping fish expression that had come across his face at Arthur's proposition. "I hardly think it necessary. Tomorrow's Christmas Eve." He points at the calendar and at its reindeer theme of the month.

Arthur looks to Agravaine, cocking an eyebrow.

Agravaine crosses his arms over his chest and smiles. "Your PA is right, Arthur," he says. He sounds calm and soothing, and Arthur finds he's glad Agravaine bought some of the shares Arthur's father had sold upon retiring.

Having him there lends the business an aura of the familiar he's not averse to. If anything he's very appreciative, feeling he can relax better having a relative with a solid business background to help him hold the reins of the company. "Nobody will listen kindly if they're focusing on their holidays. This is not a good time to press your points. Besides, you need to relax."

Leon makes a noise Arthur reads as agreement and when Arthur settles his gaze on him, he says, "You have been working non-stop for the past year and a half. And you do need a break."

Arthur knows that and knows that Leon needs one too. If Arthur takes a few days off, Leon will be able to spend some quality time with his family. He hasn't had the chance to do much of that lately.

"You're near break-down," Agravaine says gently. "The dark circles under your eyes have dark circles underneath."

Arthur makes an effort to loosen the muscles in his shoulder. Moving hurts. He's always taken care of his body, but the long office hours have done nothing to help the perpetual crick in his neck.

"Cyprus will do you good," says Leon.

"I'll mail you the address of some friends of mine who're over there," says Agravaine. "Expatriates. They have a beautiful daughter."

Arthur groans and buries his head in his arms. He looks up very reluctantly and grits out a very laconic, "I'm not looking for company."

Leon pats his tie and Agravaine says, "As you wish. She's a clever girl but I understand your need for solitude and relaxation."

Arthur doesn't say anything to that. Uncle Agravaine has only recently made a come-back into his life, and Arthur hasn't felt like acquainting him with every little detail of his life.

There's no need to equivocate, though, because the blinking red led on his phone display alerts them to an incoming call. Leon takes it and the oft repeated words, "Arthur Pendragon's office, Leon Knight speaking," roll easily off his tongue.

After having hemmed and hummed, Leon puts the receiver back in its cradle. "The car's ready, Arthur."

"What about my luggage? I don't have any luggage."

Leon opens a drawer, closes it, hands him a vinyl travel wallet, and says, "I printed off the boarding pass. You're travelling Business. I took the liberty of packing up for you. You'll find Percy has already stowed your suitcase in the limo."

Arthur gets to his feet, takes the wallet, and doesn't even bother to check his tickets or rental vouchers. Leon never makes mistakes of that kind.

"Go, Arthur," says his uncle, sauntering over and placing both hands on his shoulders. "Unwinding will do you good."

Arthur can only put on his coat, scarf and gloves and pick up the briefcase he never leaves without. "Well, see you after New Year's then."

A lift ride later, Arthur walks out of the company building and makes his way to the company limo.

Percival is standing at attention next to the open passenger door, snowflakes covering him, cap in place, looking for all the world like an SAS officer instead of a chauffeur.

"To Heathrow, Percival," says Arthur as he brushes off snowflakes and folds himself into the back seat.

****

Leon's sending out holiday card mails to all of Camelot's shareholders, staff, clients, associates and family members. They're all signed with a stylish Arthur Pendragon at the bottom, though of course, Arthur has had nothing to do with them from the idea's original inception to their delivery.

There are different personalised bunches Leon himself has designed with the help of their tech expert, Elyan from IT, and Leon is overall satisfied with them. He rubs at his bearded chin and smiles.

The smile fades somewhat when he remembers the files sitting next to his elbow. "Sod it all to hell!" He glances at the clock and finds that it's nearly five. He closes his mail client and pushes back his chair. He picks up the incriminating folders and looks at the door. Arthur's well on his way to Heathrow now and if Leon texts him, he'll come back, miss his plane, spend his holidays at home, which really means in his office, and come back more stressed than he was before.

Berating himself for having forgotten, Leon sighs and pushes his chair back. He tucks the folders under his arm and makes for the corridor. He just needs a board member's signature to get the staff bonuses approved and he needn't wreck Arthur's holiday for that.

He's so preoccupied, he almost doesn't notice Browne from acquisitions until the man stops and says, "Hello, Leon. Happy Holidays."

"Thank you, sir," Leon answers. "Likewise."

"Is Arthur working you into the ground as usual?"

Leon grimaces. "Not without doing the same to himself, unfortunately."

"That's what working for the boss is all about, eh?" Mr Browne says. "Especially such a one as Pendragon!"

Leon's not sure how to take the statement. Mr Browne is winking and his lips are tightly pursed. The muscle in his jaw looks set and he's playing with his tie in a nervous fashion though the expression in his eyes is benevolent enough. He could be yanking Leon's chain or he could be slinging barbs at Arthur. After all, Arthur's work ethic borders on the obsessive compulsive and he asks as much from others as he does out of himself. This makes a number of people less than happy.

Browne might be one of them. "Well, Arthur certainly is tough to please but working for him is an honour."

Mr Browne straightens and he claps a hand on Leon's arm. "Your diligence does you honour too."

They part over more "Happy Holidays" wishes, Leon hastening down the corridor and rounding a corner fast in the hopes of still catching Agravaine du Bois in his office.

He heaves a sigh of relief when he sees a short, stocky man exiting du Bois' office. "Pardon," Leon says when the man nearly walks into him, but the man doesn't apologise, opting for turning, ducking his head and hurrying towards the lifts.

Leon doesn't curse him only because he's made an art form of politeness.

Shaking his head, Leon slips into Mr du Bois' office. Mr du Bois is standing in his shirtsleeves next to the safe. When he sees Leon, he whips round, his lips tighten so that small wrinkles form around them, making him appear older and more severe, and slams the door to the safe shut.

He quickly punches in the lock code numbers, shading the keypad with his hand as he does so. Quite brusquely, given his usually gentle tone, he asks, "Was there something you wanted?"

Very odd, thinks Leon, but aloud he says, "Just needed you to sign a few papers now that Arthur's away."

Du Bois smiles tightly. "But of course." He makes for his desk and picks up a pen. "But of course."

****

One hour and a half, three too packed trains and an encounter with an umbrella-wielding old lady who'd spewed potting soil from a couple of freshly bought begonias all over him, Merlin finds himself on the landing before his flat's door.

He pats his pockets and searches his messenger bag only to realise that he hasn't got his keys. Like the idiot he is, he's locked himself out. He pushes the doorbell repeatedly and with a certain intent, hoping Gwaine is in. If Merlin remembers Gwaine's schedule, he should be, but then again Gwaine and timetables don't really mesh well.

He's practically rang the doorbell into performing a morse code version of the Radeztky March, when the door opens.

A tall leggy blonde leans against it and flashes him a bright smile. She's dressed in a Sexy Santa outfit, made up of a fur trimmed red mini-dress, wide black belt, striped stockings and Santa hat from which perfect ringlets escape. Merlin hasn't got the least idea as to who she is.

"I guess you’re Gwaine's friend?" he says.

The blonde smiles at him, showing a perfect, toothpaste-commercial-worthy row of pearly whites. "Yes, I'm Heather."

"Hello, Heather," Merlin says. "I'm Gwaine's--"

She doesn't let him finish but drags him in. "His flatmate. Of course. Gwaine's talked about his flatmate. He wanted to know if I have a hot friend to introduce you to. I know a Tai Chi instructor, if you're interested. We could have a foursome."

As befits all of Gwaine's friends, Heather is bubbly, so bubbly she's managed to say all that in under thirty seconds and before the door could fall shut. Which means that old Mrs Cailleach has heard everything because of course she's chosen that moment to run her morning errands. Merlin despairs of ever getting respect from his neighbours for as long as he shares living quarters with Gwaine. Pity that Gwaine is such a good friend because that means the neighbours will forever look askance at him.

When the door finally closes, Merlin asks, "Where's Gwaine? I wanted to say good-bye."

Heather bites her nails. "He's gone to buy the whipped cream. You've run out."

Merlin puts his messenger bag in the storage cupboard and says, lips twitching, "I don't want to know, do I?"

Heather prowls closer to him, running her fingers down his arm and whispering in his ear. "You might want to."

The key turns in the lock and Gwaine waltzes in, holding a carrier bag full of whipped cream bottles and what look to be frozen strawberries and mono-dose packets.

Heather licks Merlin's earlobe, Merlin jumps, and Gwaine says, "That's quite interesting," throwing Merlin an odd look.

Merlin holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm not poaching on your territory, mate."

Gwaine shrugs. "You know I'm open to all kind of experiences."

"Sure, yeah." Merlin's face goes hot. "Because you're so-"

Gwaine smirks and Merlin just knows he's about to discuss all the kinky things he's done and could initiate Merlin to.

So as not to embarrass himself further with clear hints as to his wide-eyed innocence, Merlin dives into his own room. He's got some packing to do.

He puts his iPod in its dock and cranks up the music so he won't have to listen to the goings on outside his room. He's downloaded himself a nice Christmas medley and as he counts underwear pieces and socks, makes a ball of them, and throws them basketball style into his trolley, he listens to the lyrics to the first song. _"It doesn't show signs of stopping, And I've bought some corn for popping."_ He can't help feeling as though for once the lyrics match the weather conditions.

He's moved to placing toiletries into the trolley's side compartment when the doorbell rings.

Before he's out of his room and back into the hall he hears Gwaine say, "What the fuck, Will!"

Which is right about the time Merlin's heart acquaints itself with Merlin's stomach. When Merlin makes the hall, the picture he takes in is all kinds of odd indeed and can only be a tableau out of his sometimes epically shitty life.

To the left, Gwaine is standing shirtless while Heather's peeking out of his bedroom. Now this is par for the course; it's not as if Gwaine doesn't pull a lot and the people he attracts tend to not to be shy.

Will and his girlfriend are huddled together by the door; Will's arm is draped over her shoulder. The problem, though, is that Will's arm isn't draped over Drea's shoulders out of sheer and pure affection – though Merlin entertains no doubts as to Will being arse over tit in love with Drea – but because he needs the support. As a matter of fact, Will's leg is encased in plaster from foot to knee and he's using one of a pair of crutches. Drea is brandishing the other one.

"What happened?" Merlin gawps, as do Gwaine and Heather.

"I woke up a bit late this morning."

"It was past ten!" says Drea.

"And I thought to myself that if I drove here I'd never really make it. Not if I wanted to have time to do my packing."

Dreya sighs. "Cause you couldn't do it yesterday while I did?"

"No," says Will, balancing on his lone crutch. "Because doing things at the same time when you're a couple is stupid."

"Some things work out well when you do them at the same time," Gwaine puts in, tossing his head because his hair's blinding him.

Drea blushes while Will puffs his chest out, opening his mouth to challenge Gwaine.

Merlin has no time for that. "So?"

"So I took out my scooter but the ground was frozen, the wheels had no grip and I sort of crashed."

"Right outside our driveway," says Drea mournfully.

"I'm so sorry, Will," says Merlin. "How on-- He passes a hand over his face. "Does it hurt?"

"They gave me morphine and ibuprofen at the A&E, so I'm sort of mellow."

Merlin goes to help Will move over to the sofa. As they wobble over, he says, "I think we can get a refund, don't worry."

"Huh?" says Will as he manoeuvres himself onto the sofa. "We? You're going, Merlin!"

"What? No!" says Merlin, gesticulating at Will's plaster encased leg. "I'll stay."

"No, I'll file a claim for my refund but you can still go."

"But you'll need help."

Drea is still intent on disposing of the crutches, propping them vertically against the wall. They keep sliding sideways, leaving indents in the wall. She's getting a bit frantic since they refuse to stay in place, so Gwaine just stalks over, grabs them and tosses them on the armchair. "Merlin can stand."

Free from the encumbrance, Drea mutters a thank you to Gwaine and then spins around to tell Merlin, "I rang me mum and told her I'm not visiting anymore. I'm looking after Will."

"But--"

"Really, Merlin, you shouldn't miss your holiday," says Will. "When was the last time you went on one? When was the last time you didn't pull that long face of yours?"

"I'm extremely cheerful, I'll have you know."

"Really, Merlin," says Will. "You have two functional legs right now. If you waste this chance, I'll make sure you'll have only one before the evening's out. We'll be called the broken limbs twins."

Gwaine shuffles closer. "That or I'll ask Heather to set you up on a series of New Year blind dates. I hear her Tai Chi instructor is hot if a bit dim."

Merlin raises both hands. "I just want to help my friend!"

"And your friend just wants you out of his hair," says Will, flinging a cushion at him. "Really, Merlin, I'll have all the comfort I need from my hot girl here."

"That's not very kind."

"But oh so true," says Gwaine.

"Okay, Gwaine's officially a plonker," Merlin says, "but you do need me!"

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"Merlin, it's not as if I run on micro-chips and wi-fi. You can't fix me."

Merlin makes a face. That's kind of true. "What if you're in pain?"

Will laughs. "They gave me morphine, remember? And if that's not enough I'll take the A&E by storm. It's not as if you can forge me prescriptions."

"I so wouldn't."

"There, see?"

Gwaine slips out of the living room and into Merlin's bedroom, Merlin's music drifting out incongruously as he opens the door. He comes back lugging Merlin's trolley. "Just go have fun, Merlin. You deserve it."

Flicking a glance at Will's pale, pained face, Merlin asks, "Are you positive you won't need me?"

He's answered by a chorus of yeses and then a loud, "Christ. Just go!" from Gwaine.

  
****

There's a tailback on the M25 and even though Percival is a dab hand at weaving in and out of traffic they haven't moved an inch in the past twenty minutes.

The glass partition between driver's seat and passenger seat goes down noiselessly and Percival says, "I should have gone for the M4, sir."

"It's not your fault, Percival," says Arthur, the leather of the seat creaking under him. "I set out late. Maybe I should just get back to the office."

Percival meets Arthur's eyes in the mirror. "Sir, Mr Knight said I should by no means say yes if you asked that."

"And tell me, Percival," says Arthur, "who pays you?" Though there's an edge to his words he makes his tone kind.

"You, sir," says Percival, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "But that's not going to do much good if you die prematurely. So I'm going to listen to Mr Knight, sir." Arthur has to give it to Percival; the man's still holding his gaze in the rear-view mirror.

"Turn the radio on." Arthur leans forward. "Maybe we'll learn if there's a chance of ever getting unstuck."

Percival does. Static comes on and then the presenter says soberly, "On the M25 eastbound between junctions J15 and J14, there are currently delays of up to an hour due to an accident closing one lane. Normal traffic conditions are expected to reprise from 7:15 pm onwards."

"Ah," says Arthur. "I think we need to archive this holiday idea."

"Maybe I can find us a way to get on the M4, sir."

"Percival, sometimes it's just not worth it, you know."

"But Mr Knight--"

Arthur throws his hands up in the air. "Well, Mr Knight is not God, is he?" snaps Arthur. "Nor is he the patron saint of traffic so it seems we'll have to be patient and give up on getting to Heathrow."

As soon as Arthur's said that he hears the sounds of police sirens.

"A police car's made the junction, sir," Percival said. "I can see their lights."

"We could still stay stuck here for hours," Arthur points out, as he believes, not unreasonably. He gets his smart phone out of his pocket and starts going through his mail.

"They're clearing the junction, sir." Percival makes the engine roar, the sound echoing oddly triumphant. "I think the holiday's still on, sir."

****

Merlin barely makes the last Heathrow Express that would be good to get him to the airport in time for his flight. This even though he'd printed the tickets out the evening before.

In a karmic, cosmic balance kind of scenario, he also almost runs into an old lady looking just like the one who had ruined his clothing earlier that morning, mumbles his 'sorrys' at her, and sprints a stretch before he can sink into the first available seat.

Thirty minutes later, Merlin has made it to terminal three and is pleasantly warmed by the festive atmosphere surrounding him. As he lifts his head looking for the display monitor, he notices a giant wreath of mistletoe made up of fluorescent steel tubing and multi-coloured steel balls.

It's suspended a few metres from the ground and couples are kissing under it. A little kid of about two or three, who's wearing replica reindeer antlers, is pointing at it. His mum is cooing down at him, smiling fondly and saying, "Isn't it cute, love?"

"Mistoe," says the boy.

Merlin smiles and hurries along to the check-in counter. He has mainly brought the trolley just so as to be able to stuff it full of souvenirs once he reaches his destination. The happy faces his friends are going to pull when they see they've been showered in tiny presents is certainly worth the hassle of having to check-in instead of making do with cabin luggage.

The operation itself doesn't take too long and Merlin goes through security in a reasonable amount of time (even though he was oddly pawed by the security guy manning the x-ray machine).

Merlin's busy gaping at the snowflake inspired lighting games that are part of the seasonal decorations when a competent female voice makes itself heard over the loudspeakers.

"Due to the unstable weather conditions, some flights are now subject to delay or cancellation. Please check with your airline or at the gate for further information on your flight."

Merlin says, "Oh, come on. This is my first holiday in a loooong time!"

Huffing a little, Merlin does as advised and walks up to the departure gate. He queues up to ask a member of the airline's personnel, the twentieth hopeful passenger to do so. The ground crew lady pulls stiffly on her jacket and says, "I'm sorry. For now most flights are grounded. Keep checking the monitors. We'll update you as soon as we can."

A man shouldering a rucksack asks, "But how long is it going to take? I need to be in Zurich by tonight."

"I don't know, sir," the ground crew lady says. "It depends on Air Traffic Control. They have to clear us first."

"But--"

A lady carrying a laptop says, "It's going to take hours. We can all sit and stay calm in the meanwhile."

"Really mum?" her child asks.

"I fear so."

Merlin can't agree more, especially after looking past the airport windows and at the snow-covered runway and concourses.

A baggage handler is trudging towards one of the baggage carts and mounts on it, fluorescent helmet marking him out even in the blizzard. A pilot is standing on top of the stairs to his plane, shaking his head and waving his hands at the signal man.

Merlin wanders off, though he rings Heathrow just to be on the safe side. The automated message he gets is a little disappointing: "All our lines are busy. For the latest information or to change travel plans, please visit BA.com."

Lower lip sticking out, Merlin determines he should try to kill the time in the best way he can. He visits the loos and then takes to ambling around.

The airport at Christmas is a strange sort of universe, shops and duty frees all decked out as they are to lure potential customers in. The decorations, warm and seasonal, clash with the cold and futuristic terminal architecture. The stranded passengers roam the various areas, some crowding the cafés and eateries, using wifi, others bivouacking on the floor covered by foil sheets because of the scarcity of seats, some others busy shopping to kill the time.

Merlin stops at a WH Smith's, buys himself a magazine and then heads off to the Christmas grotto because the WH Smith employee told him not to miss it.

When he actually locates it, Merlin is delighted to find out that multi-coloured baubles pile high near the wooden sleigh. Snowy Christmas trees and decorations are on display to produce a semi-magical atmosphere that makes Merlin think of Christmases past and childhood and the anticipation he felt when he spent sleepless Christmas Eves waiting for Santa, or at least his elf, to drop by. He remembers positively shaking under the covers, staying huddled in under their weight, knees bent, eyes closed, picturing him as he fought his way down the chimney stack.

It had been a kind of magic. An irreplaceable feeling of... happiness.

In a corner Merlin spies an elf, a five foot four girl wearing a green velvety tunic and a bright red floppy hat from which little silver bells dangle and chime. Santa's there too, ho-ho-hoing for the children, who are pointing at him and asking him to ring his golden bell or to be allowed to take pictures with him. One of them wants to climb into his lap. "I want to make sure he knows what to get me," the little thing, missing a front tooth, says.

Fake snow covers every available surface, holly wreaths hang here and there and a little toy train, looking perfect though miniaturised, is tootling through.

Merlin stays there for quite a long time, snaps a photo, forwards it to Will, Drea and Gwaine and then decides he ought to make it back to the departure gate to check on his flight.

On the way there he almost stumbles into a vending machine, and since this is another instance of destiny at work, he buys himself a cup of hot chocolate.

He makes sure to press the sugar button repeatedly because he needs a bit of recharging and likes sweet things on top. Merlin wraps both hands around the Styrofoam cup and starts blowing on it. It's steaming. Despite that he takes a sip because he can't resist. The liquid scalds him but the after taste is heavenly.

However, balancing rucksack and cup doesn't prove easy. The rucksack, pretty heavy in and of itself, is bouncing on his back, making him walk less than steadily. He keeps his eyes trained on the cup and the liquid sloshing in it, only lifting them to make sure he's close to gate fifteen, but not showering himself in chocolate is proving tricky.

Considering the amount of attention he was paying, it would have been smooth sailing if he hadn't tripped into an over-the-shoulder nappy bag a mum had deposited a few feet away from her and directly into Merlin's path. Still, the situation would have been salvageable if another row of seats hadn't been placed in front of the one the lady was occupying. As it happens, Merlin's feet get tangled in the strap and the contents of his cup go flying, spraying far and wide.

Merlin, for his part, ends up sprawled face down on the floor, Styrofoam cup rolling away from where he's lying. When Merlin props himself up on his elbow and looks up to find out what kind of damages he's wreaked, it's to find himself subjected to the glare of a man whose white Oxford shirt is sort of chocolate stained. Chocolate stained and past salvaging, to be correct.

Before Merlin can apologise, the man, holding the fabric away from his skin, shouts, "It's bloody hot, you cretin!"

Merlin gets to his knees and summons the courage to say, "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to ruin your shirt."

The man's face gets covered in red splotches. "You didn't--" He shakes his head then barks again, "You didn't mean it!"

Merlin gets up and starts foraging inside his rucksack. "I've got a box of Kleenex."

The man shoots to his feet. "And you think _that_ is going to do anything?"

Merlin takes another look at the huge main stain and the constellation of other tiny ones that mar the fabric of the man's shirt. The man's pretty shirt. Ouch. Merlin's done it, hasn't he? Ruined someone's holiday and possibly Christmas. Merlin must do something; he must. Guilt gnawing at him, Merlin grimaces and grabs his victim by the wrist. "Come," he says. "It's not as if they're boarding any time soon."

The man splutters, producing a series of noises that would fit in a BBC docu on animal life. "Why are you manhandling me? Where are we going?"

Merlin, marching ahead, makes a duh face, and says, "The loos." He remembers the lavatories are close to his gate, and since he'd almost made it back when he'd showered the man in chocolate, they too must be in the vicinity. He's proved right. He pushes the protesting man whose shirt he'd wrecked into the lavatories, lets go of him and turns the tap. He grabs a handful of tissues from the dispenser, wets them and whips around, trapping the man between himself and the basin.

Their legs get nearly tangled and he can detect the pattern of the man's hurried, angry breathing as he puffs out air. Merlin starts dabbing at the stain as though his life depends on it.

"I can see what you're doing," the man screeches. It's almost like falsetto. "And there's no need to. See, it's even worse now."

"Why, what did you think I was doing?" asks Merlin, sweeping the wet wad of crumbling tissues across the stain. It's less of a dark brown now but its edges are blurring so that it looks larger if a little lighter.

"I don't know," the man huffs, "you're an unknown who's just dragged me into a loo, a solitary loo at that, and--"

Merlin's cheeks puff up and he stops in his attempts at rescuing the shirt from a chocolatey death. "I wasn't trying to assault you, you paranoid wanker. I was trying to help!"

That's when Merlin looks up and really takes in the man's face for the first time. He'd been too mortified to look properly before. And no joke, the man's handsome. He's got a nice jaw and cheekbones, fluffy blond hair that are tousled by now and blue eyes that are a little slanted and resemble those of a spoilt and perceptive Persian cat.

Merlin's eyes rake lower and he considers what the shirt, now wet and sticking to the man's torso, does nothing to hide: the broad shoulders, powerful chest and strong but not overly Rambo-like build. The swell of the man's biceps is interesting, indeed, and Merlin gulps, thinks 'oh shit' and feels the colour rise to his cheeks.

"Oh my God," the man says, fending Merlin off with two raised hands. "I was right."

"No, you bloody twit," Merlin nearly shouts. "I wasn't trying to molest you."

Which is exactly when a burly man walks in and gives Merlin the evil, stinky eye. Fortunately the man shuts himself up in a stall, banging the door as loudly as he possibly can, and leaves Merlin free to defend himself. "I was feeling sorry. I didn't want you to have to throw away your shirt. I just wanted to help!"

The man's expression softens. "All right," he says. "I believe you. But have you taken a look at this shirt?"

Merlin has and is mortified to find that his stain removal attempt has made matters even worse. The stain has faded but spread, tinting most of the shirt an odd khaki colour where it isn't downright bark brown. Tiny lint-like strips of tissue fabric stick to the shirt, making it look as though the man either has a bad case of dandruff or has passed through the car wash in his shirtsleeves – with no car for cover. The wetness of the fabric mustn't be pleasant to experience either, and Merlin can do nothing but lower his lashes contritely and say again, "Sorry."

"Well, yeah."

"You don't have another shirt?"

"I do," says the man. "In the suitcase I checked in."

Merlin can see the man's angry but he can also see that he's trying not to bite Merlin's head off anymore. Well, at least he must believe Merlin's no perv; though on second thought, this man is exactly Merlin's type and Merlin would have said something about that if they hadn't met in the most embarrassing way possible or if the man hadn't suspected him of pawing him to get off.

"Oh," says Merlin, shoulders drooping. Since his flight was supposed to be short – before the delay news – Merlin hadn't put a change of clothes in his rucksack. "I haven't got anything either."

The man looks at him, sweeping his eyes up and down Merlin's body. "Nothing of yours would fit me anyway." It's said haughtily and Merlin snaps, "Hey, I'm taller than you and built okay."

The man's lips twitch. "I wasn't looking to offend you." He studies Merlin then, raking his eyes over him once more. Merlin thinks he could keep the staring to himself if all he's doing is trying to disparage Merlin and his admittedly weak attempts at putting things right. "Look," the man adds, "what's done is done. I'll put my jacket on and change when or if I land in Cyprus."

"Okay," says Merlin. "I guess if there's nothing I can do..."

The burly man from before must have flushed the toilet for it's all Merlin can hear for about ten seconds. When he wobbles out, Merlin's chocolate victim speaks up again. "I should thank you for trying to help but since you ruined my shirt, I'd say we're even."

Merlin sucks on his lower lip and the man takes in a breath. He turns, washes his hands, and when he's done he says, "I'll go back to my seat and wait for my flight."

Merlin watches him walk out and feels a fair bit guilty and a fair bit unsettled.

  
****

Arthur is trying to settle down again and focus on the open book page before him but it's not so easy. The stained shirt is sticking to him in a way that's driving him mad. He wants to scratch at his skin and undress even though he realises that if he did the former it'd look like he had scabies and if he just stripped in public they'd call airport security.

He considers another trip to the toilets but gives up when he sees that a crowd has gathered around the departure gate's desk. Maybe they're boarding. He ambles towards the ground crew officer but stops in his tracks when he hears one of his fellow would-be passengers say, "So nothing new then."

"No, sir. I'm sorry. Keep your eyes on the monitors."

Arthur trudges back to his seat, head bent. He's very much of a mind to go back home. The only thing stopping him is the knowledge that he would have to go get his case back from the check-in people if he doesn't want it destroyed.

He's about to sit again when he finds that a shadow is darkening the plastic chair he'd been sitting on. He half turns around and is surprised to see the chocolate wielder from before. He's standing there holding a shopping bag by its sides and pushing it towards Arthur. The label on the bag says Reiss.

Arthur arches an eyebrow and says, "What's that?"

Chocolate Guy says, "A replacement shirt."

"You--"

"Bought you a replacement shirt because I was feeling bad."

Chocolate Guy is indeed looking a little bit like a guilty schoolboy except for the fact that he's obviously in his twenties. It's the way he's biting on his lower lip, the way he's shuffling from foot to foot, and the way he's almost using the bag as a shield. He should look like an idiot but he doesn't. He's kind of endearing and his features are more than a little breathtaking. The flush that is spreading across his nose is highlighting his cheekbones and doing something to make him look almost edible, making you think of other kinds of situations when the blood might rise closer to the skin. Arthur is left at a loss for words for a few seconds, then he recovers and says, "But you shouldn't have. I said it was okay."

"Not really," says Chocolate Guy. "You said there was nothing to be done."

"And there wasn't."

"But see," says Chocolate Guy, "there was. I'm sure it'll fit you." He pushes the bag into Arthur's hands, causing him to stumble back and sit to catch himself.

"Well, it might," says Arthur. "But I can't accept your money."

"If I'd caused a fender bender I'd have paid for your new bumper."

"You're comparing this to a fender bender?" asks Arthur, watching as Chocolate Guy reddens some more. He shakes the bag he's been given.

Chocolate Guy nods severely. "Obviously there's no car involved and if there was I'd be worrying over completely different things but it's mostly the same thing. I ruined your shirt. I'm replacing it." He grins and says, "Look at it at least. I think you'll like it. Even though it's not exactly like the one I ruined."

He takes a step closer, smiles in a way that is making Arthur think of saying yes just to see a little more of that smile and then abruptly starts sniffing the air.

"Oh," he goes. "You smell great. Er, of chocolate great. But that's normal cause I did shower you in it. I swear I wasn't coming onto you?"

There's a lilt to Chocolate Guy’s tone as if he's changed his statement to a question. It makes Arthur burst out laughing. He pinches the bridge of his nose to stop himself. His sides hurt a little, muscles straining, and he's going to rupture something if he doesn't.

He can't grasp why he's doing this, but it feels good, so he only checks himself because people have turned around and are looking at him as if he were deranged.

Chocolate Guy doesn't look as if he's too chuffed either. "Because if I was, that would have been totally absurd right, Mr Businessman?"

Arthur shakes his head and raises a hand, fending the accusation off. "No, no it wouldn't."

"It seemed to me you found the idea totally hilarious."

"No," Arthur says. "Look, I'll take the replacement shirt if I can buy you a coffee in exchange for the chocolate you spilled on me."

Chocolate Guy's gawping expression changes into a lopsided bright grin that morphs his entire face; his eyes narrow and get crinkles round them, his stance relaxes, and as it does, Arthur can appreciate the perks of the man's greyhound build. The wide set shoulders, slim hips, and long legs are something to write home about.

"I'm Merlin," he says.

****

The man whose shirt Merlin condemned to a death by chocolate is called Arthur.

Arthur is really a businessman, but then he sort of gives off that vibe, and looks good in the new shirt Merlin bought – the one Merlin chose himself, the one Merlin can't really look at without thinking that he'd be buying clothes for Arthur a lot if they were intimate...

As Arthur chases down a glass of bitter, throat working, Merlin catches himself fantasising about running his tongue along the tendons of Arthur's neck. He pictures himself mouthing kisses up his throat till he can nuzzle his jaw and tongue his mouth. He stops focusing on the mundane reality of the airport for long moments before he checks and berates himself for having x-rated thoughts about the man sitting in front of him.

"Hey, I asked you where you were flying off to but if it's a secret you don't have to tell me."

Merlin startles. "Where I was what?" Merlin has a very vivid imagination. It's kinda 3D-like and the vision was enticing so he should be forgiven for his attention lapse.

"Travelling to, Merlin," says Arthur in a tone that sounds both amused and long suffering. "I was asking where you were going."

Merlin tinkers with his cup. "Oh, it's no secret." He waves his hand about. "I was going to Zurich to see the Christmas markets and do some sightseeing."

"Oh no," says Arthur, eyes rounding and expression going a little mock panicked. He just needs to hold his cheeks and open his mouth to get the full Munch effect going. "You're one of those Christmas lovers, aren't you?

"I totally am," Merlin says. "I love everything seasonal. I have seasonal music downloaded, always watch _It's A Wonderful Life_ when it's on the telly, and I actually sort of might have subscribed to a postcard exchange programme. So, yep, I am. And now you hate me."

Arthur finishes his drink, plays with the empty glass, and says, "Can't hate the man who bought me a brand new shirt. I find all that seasonal drivel annoying though."

Merlin flashes back to his childhood, to him and his mum decorating the Christmas tree and having to make do with less than super new and shiny baubles. Having to make do hadn't been bad for him at all; he'd been allowed to make drawings and stick them to the branches, and to use cotton balls instead of the expensive artificial snow specialised shops sold. He'd been happy. "It's not really."

"It's just a commercial bid to empty your pockets." Arthur turns on his stool and studies Merlin a little more intently. "Believe me, I should know. I'm in business."

Merlin frowns. Arthur looks fantastic and he has gentle eyes that would make you think he has a nice soul stashed somewhere but all this talk is unsettling Merlin. It's cynical and Merlin has long ago learnt that cynicism doesn't make him happy. "Now don't go all Scrooge on me," he says. When what he really wants to say is, "Make me like you, please, because I fancy the clothes off you already." Of course he has the self control to stick to the former.

"I'm not being a Scrooge," says Arthur. "All my employees regularly receive fat checks. And if you're religious... I'm not trying to insult that. It's just that I don't like it when people play with my feelings. And harping on the family theme is just like that. It's preying."

Merlin can understand that, though he'd like to see Arthur let go a little. Right now his shoulders are set in a rigid line and his expression is on the bad side of pinched.

So as not to focus on Arthur's Christmas dislike, Merlin rummages into his pockets for his change and pays for their drinks, Arthur protesting that he'd meant to do that himself. "No," says Merlin. "I've got to show you something first."

He starts sprinting down the terminal, only craning his neck to make sure that Arthur's following him. And he is. Which makes Merlin feel a little giddy or as if there's not enough oxygen going to his brain. This should be worrying, as he should be sad about the fact that his holiday might be cancelled any moment, but his heart is beating in his throat in that pleasant way that is all anticipation and not anxiety so he lets all worries go and enjoys both the run and the feeling.

He races past the vending machine, rucksack bumping the small of his back, and skids to a stop before the grotto, nearly running into and bowling over three little kids queuing up for Santa. His breath is coming fast but he smiles through it when he sees Arthur, still looking smart in the new shirt, catch up with him.

"You're bonkers!" says Arthur, wheezing. "Why did you have to run all this way?"

"To get you to see the happy kids and the fake snow."

"When there's real snow on the ground that's making it impossible for us to go on holiday and when you look ten times happier than the bounciest kid?"

Merlin looks at the kids, tries to establish whether he looks more or less enthusiastic than them and shrugs his shoulders when he realises that maybe he's made more noise than they have. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," says Arthur. "It looks good on you though."

Merlin feels the urge to shuffle or bow his head but he fights it and cocking his head to one side, he goes and says, "Yeah?"

"Definitely."

"I didn't mean to push you into doing something you didn't like."

"Merlin, we're stuck here with little to do. Anything goes."

Disappointment bites at Merlin. As it does, he finds that it's because he was expecting a different answer from Arthur. And that's absurd, isn't it? Even though Arthur seemed flirty – in a breath-taking, I-like-you way – a few moments before, it doesn't mean he actually was or that he's gay. Besides, even if he was, which is not a given – Merlin's instincts notwishtanding – it's not as if they know each other. It's just that Merlin feels like moving closer, orbiting nearer Arthur. "Anything to kill the time, eh?"

"Not like that," says Arthur. "I'm enjoying myself."

"Honestly?"

Arthur places a hand on his heart. "Honestly." He studies Merlin out of narrowed eyes and then says, "You're beet red. Is it because you like winter wonderlands so much?"

Merlin sticks his chin out and waggles his head. "Yes."

Arthur tilts his and grins. "Sure?"

"Absolutely," says Merlin. "My heart flutters when I see one."

Arthur takes a step closer so he's in Merlin's personal space. "That the only thing that makes your heart flutter so poetically?"

Merlin swallows but bats at Arthur's arm. "No, there's plenty more that does the trick."

"Really?" Arthur whistles. "I wonder what that is."

"I'll tell you about something I like," Merlin says mischievously, not minding putting himself out there now that he's having a positive reaction. "If you come with me, I'll show you."

"Oh, I'll come."

 

****

 

 _Oh, I'll come? Oh, I'll come?_ Arthur hadn't been so unsubtle since fifth form probably.

Where had his tact and ability to flirt in a more suave way gone to? They'd probably gone for a hike the moment he'd found Merlin looks ten times cuter when he's all out of breath and flushed. Or when he'd found out that Merlin is a bit of a babbler and that he has an endearing way of going about it.

Then there's the fact that Merlin has a rather wicked sense of humour or just a funny way of describing what seems to be a killer set of friends. "Give me another pound," says Merlin. "And I'll finish the story."

Arthur leans his head back and closes his eyes. "You're too addicted to these things. And I want to know how Gwaine got out of that one."

"But my massage stopped."

"That's the tragedy of massage chairs."

"But your pockets are jingling with coins!"

"Story first!"

"Pound first!"

"Blackmailer!"

Merlin sets his lips into a cocky grin. "But you like me all the same."

Arthur wants to say that he really does, that Merlin, in the space of two hours, has brought the smile back to his lips, has lifted his mood, and has made him forget about the weight of worry, almost like a shroud he can't ever lift, from off his chest. Granted, he's had too little time to put that into perspective but it's a good sensation. He says, "I'll like you better if you deliver."

"Okay then," says Merlin, not taking his eyes off Arthur. "He shaved, borrowed the girl's clothes, faced her dad saying his name was Goneril, positive, swear, and stalked out of the flat like that. The doorman to that building still has a crush on Goneril." Merlin makes air quotes when he mentions the name.

Arthur rummages in his pockets and hands Merlin a pound coin. Merlin practically purrs as he slips it into the slot and his massage chair starts vibrating again. He's all wriggles, and with hips like that his wriggles are riveting,. Arthur would give much more than a pound to see more of that. "I want another story though."

Merlin tilts his head Arthur's way and bats his eyelashes. "God, I hope the flight's cancelled."

Arthur opens his mouth to speak but Merlin manages to put a word in edgewise first. "Because the chair's fantastic. It's more like a throne. A throne that massages you and loosens all your muscles and tickles your sides. Really, what's Zurich compared to this chair? It makes me want to stay."

"We should uproot them and take them home," says Arthur, blood rushing faster in his veins thanks to the undercurrent to Merlin's words. "I think we could if you distract the security guards."

"And where would you stash them?" asks Merlin. His hand edges closer to Arthur's. "I came by train."

"I can call my chauffeur and have him stash them in the boot." Arthur lets their fingers brush. It's not much of a move and if Merlin shakes him off he can pass it off as a coincidence, an accidental touch, but Merlin doesn't remove his hand.

He licks his lips instead and takes a huge breath. "I see," he says in a shaky voice. "You're using your privilege to commit theft. Typical of the upper classes." His eyes are dancing and the teasing lilt to his tone makes Arthur want to coax more of that out of him. It makes Arthur want to touch Merlin, see if he will sigh or exhale or make a noise indicating his interest in Arthur.

Arthur goes all mock wide-eyed. "But I'm doing it for my partner in crime."

Merlin's hand covers his. "Are you?"

"Yes, indeed," he answers as brashly as he can. He's not used to doing this, being so brazenly stupid and flirty, but Merlin's awakening his more daring side. "Ask me what else I'd do for my partner in crime?"

His fingers curl under Merlin's as he waits for the answer but the answer itself doesn't come. There's a loud pinging noise instead and a voice comes over the PA speaker. They both gasp and go rigid.

Merlin's expression gets a little pinched and the tendon in Arthur's neck that usually misbehaves starts hurting again.

"All flights have currently been cancelled or delayed. We apologise for the disruption to traffic and are working to restore the service. Please check with your airline for updates on the status of your flight."

They both do, using Arthur's iPhone. "Delayed," says Arthur, relaxing his shoulders.

"Delayed," says Merlin, smiling.

"It seems we'll have to find more ways to kill the time."

Merlin's grin is bright and refreshing.

****

  
"Do you do this often?"

"What?" asks Merlin, looking up. "Film people going about their business?" He's cradling the camera as if it's something fragile and Arthur can't help but stare at his spindly fingers, at the shape of them, at the way they work the camera. Merlin's hands look as though they could be gentle. If the way he's holding the camcorder in anything to go by, Merlin would probably know how to play a body.

"Yeah."

Merlin shakes his head and points the camera at Arthur. "Say something."

Arthur fiddles with the knot of his tie. "Hello."

"That was so serious. I'll go back to filming the cleaner if you don't do anything more exciting."

Arthur pouts. "Go ahead. Film the cleaner. I'm sure he'll prove soooo entertaining."

Merlin points the camera away from him at the cleaner; the cleaner notices. He pushes his cart with renewed vigour and gives Merlin the finger the moment he brushes past him. Merlin bursts out laughing. "That's very rude," he calls after him.

"Stop laughing," Arthur tells him, though he's bubbling up with mirth himself. He has to fight to keep his composure and then hiccoughs a laugh all the same. "You'll make the vid all wobbly."

"My birthday vids are all wobbly!"

"Is that because you're always drunk on your birthday?"

"I'm always, always sober," Merlin says, doubling over with laughter. He's shooting his shoes right now and Arthur tries to wrestle the camera off him. "You'd be a horrible director, Merlin," he says as he wraps an arm around Merlin's middle. Officially it's to get the camera from Merlin, who's holding it up and away from his body, but it's really just so he can touch Merlin, leech the warmth off his body, feel him flex his muscles and breathe faster against his neck. He knows his own eyes are larger and that his lips are nearly grazing Merlin's neck when he gets a hold of the camcorder.

Merlin is holding his sides. He says, "That's unfair; that move was non-standard."

"That was fighting dirty, Merlin," Arthur says, training the camcorder on Merlin. "Not karate."

"I didn't think you'd fight dirty." Merlin has realised the camera is on him and that Arthur is still recording. He goes a becoming shade of scarlet, a fact that makes Arthur want to goad him further to see if the blush will spread, to check whether Merlin will let him see.

"I do when I want to win."

"Bugger, I had to go challenge a competitive sod." Merlin's glancing away though, throat working, fingers twitching at his sides. Arthur doesn't want to make Merlin uncomfortable and he realises he is right now, that Merlin would grow even more so if he knew Arthur was closing in on him, on his lips and jaw and chasing each angle of his face with the zoom.

He pivots a little and points the camcorder away. "This is Heathrow airport at Christmas," he says, imitating reporters worldwide. "As you can see people are a little discouraged around here cause all flights are grounded." He films the window. "Cause there's snow, a great amount of snow, on the runways. But there's no sleigh in sight." Someone walks past him and ho, ho, hos.

He points the viewfinder at all the people sitting on the floor or leaning against the walls, bags, trolleys, and other personal items scattered around them. A girl is sleeping while leaning on her boyfriend, who looks long-suffering because she's drooling on his shoulder. Yet he's petting her head all the same. Close to the loos, there are kids playing with their Nintendos and an old couple holding hands.

"And these poor souls are the victims of the Christmas rush."

Merlin darts closer. "Come on, Scrooge. You can't ruin my holiday vid."

Arthur dances away, paying attention not to drop the camera. "Only if you give me something in exchange."

"Blackmailer."

Arthur clucks his tongue. "It takes one to know one."

"Okay, shoot," says Merlin, trying to tackle him into a corner. "What's the condition?"

"A kiss."

Merlin's arms fall by his sides and Arthur's sure he's overreached like the baddie in a bad action film, when Merlin manages to sneak close to him, avert the camera and fit his semi-parted, wet lips to Arthur's.

For a few long heartbeats Merlin's mouth opens against his, Arthur's upper lip caught between Merlin's.

As a result, Arthur's heart climbs into Arthur's throat. Arthur wants to thread his fingers through Merlin's hair, reel him in and dip his tongue into Merlin's mouth. He has no time for that though. Merlin's teeth sink gently into his lip for a moment and then he waltzes off, saying, "I paid the price."

Arthur is so, so wrecked, heart beating a war rhythm in his chest, cock twitching in his jeans, that all he can do is hand the camera back.

  
****

Leon opens the door and steps into his flat. He puts his briefcase down and gets an armful of wife and a lapful of tail wagging dog.

The dog, a happy black Labrador, has grown big enough to nearly knock him off his feet as he comes charging.

Villia kisses the corner of his mouth as he tries to right himself and then circles her arms round him. "How was your day at work? Mine was fantastic. We had the best office staff party ever!"

"A bit odd," Leon admits as he kisses her cheek. "I managed to get Arthur to go."

"Wow," his wife jokes, getting out of reach. Mina, the dog, dances around them both, whining a little. "Does this mean I get some time with my husband?"

"Yes, you do," he says, chasing her into the kitchen, lifting her and placing her on the counter. She tilts her head back, inviting him to kiss her. He does, deeply and fondly, but his stomach rumbles.

"You've sniffed the omelette, haven't you?" She jumps down and says, "If you'll lay the table I'll give you a taste of heaven."

"Then I think you're heading in the wrong direction." He cocks his head towards the bedroom and she just throws her head back and laughs, hair framing her face. "I swear, Leon."

Over dinner the conversation gets more serious. They discuss buying a new car, debating if they should splurge and get the 4x4 they both want and have been ogling on Top Gear. The conversation shifts to the subject of investing so they can make some more money geared towards getting their dream car.

"I was thinking of buying some Camelot shares."

"Camelot?" Villia says, pouring herself a glass of sparkling water, Mina sprawled at her feet, a paw on her ankle. "Our manager says it's not solid investing."

"Have you read the Time's Financial section?" asks Leon, swallowing his mouthful of omelette. "Our shares are going up."

Villia picks up the glass, the water swirling inside it. Bubbles form at the bottom and climb up to the top. "Our manager says he has confidential information. He says that he was being tipped against buying Camelot by an insider."

Leon pushes his dish aside. This is a source for worry. Rumours can be deadly in the finance market. "Did he say which insider?"

Villia drinks. "No, I suppose he thinks it's confidential."

"This is bad."

"If Camelot's solid then the shares' value won't be affected. I'm not worried about your job."

Leon eases back in his chair. "Neither am I, but it's not inspiring to think one of Camelot's own employees is dissatisfied to the point of blabbing about it to someone outside the company. I think Arthur should know."

Villia rounds the table and sits on his lap. She kisses his forehead and says, "You'll tell him after he's had his holiday. He'll be more relaxed then and he'll fix everything."

A kiss persuades Leon that that's the better option. Villia leads him to the bedroom leaving the dishes back on the table. She's right; Leon has been accusing Arthur of not knowing how to unwind but he hasn't been much better himself. He and his wife both have jobs that take away the best part of their days; they need to reconnect, and these small moments, their evenings together, are meant for that.

They make love. It's slow and satisfying, maybe not as fierce as it had been when they'd first met, but it's got new depths. They've found their groove, the way to satisfy both body and mind, so that it's both a home-coming and a release, a scrabbling of hands, a barrelling into steadily mounting pleasure: the wetness of tongues, the grip of thighs around Leon's waist, the warm wetness of her as she pulses around him, her sobbed out cues as she tilts her head back on the pillow, all sweat drenched and sated.

Leon falls easily asleep after and into a dream. The dream's weird because he knows from the get-go that what he's seeing is not real, that he's not in his office and that Mr du Bois hasn't just entered Arthur's office wearing a cloak that looks as if Bela Lugosi's _Dracula_ wardrobe has made a come-back. Du Bois is also uncharacteristically followed by a horde of giant spiders, which tips Leon off as to the unreality of the experience.

Nevertheless Leon asks him, "What are you doing here? We're supposed to be home!"

"I'm feeding my spiders," says Mr du Bois and the spiders march on in one body, their little hairy legs drawing forward and twitching slightly.

The spiders advance and Leon jumps on top of the desk. "You can't do this!" he shouts. He realises that this is all absurd, that spiders that big don't exist, but he still hates himself for not moving, for standing there as if he's sprouted roots, feeling like he wants to quake.

"You can't use spiders!"

Mr du Bois cackles and all glass surfaces shatter. Leon covers his eyes with his arm to protect them because shards of glass are dangerous, and when he reopens them there's a pyre in the middle of Arthur's office and the kindling material is made of legal documents and folders. The flames go up and Leon can feel the heat on his skin.

And then he wakes with a gasp, heart thudding in his chest, skin still burning as if it had been exposed to the flames.

Villia sits up and puts an arm on his chest. In the dim light from the window he can barely see her profile, but her grip on him, her nails digging into his biceps tell him she's concerned. Since he's still shaking he can't say she has no reason to be.

"I have to make a call."

He puts his feet down but she tries to hold him back, kneeling on the mattress. "It's midnight," she says, tilting her head in the direction of the bedside alarm clock.

"I still have to make that call."

  
*****

"These need shovelfuls of mayo to become edible," says Merlin. "Pass the mayo."

"Heathen," Arthur says but pushes the container with the mayo packages towards Merlin. "It's perfect as it is."

Merlin eagerly rips the package open and floods both his salad and sandwich in mayo. "Now we're talking."

"There goes a healthy meal," Arthur says, watching as Merlin starts chomping on rocket and lettuce. "Pity."

"I didn't think you'd be so anal about your diet."

Arthur plays with his food since airport fare is not really to his taste. "My PA says I am about a whole load of other things."

Merlin swallows noisily. "If you're saying that to me, it means you agree with him."

"No, I don't." Merlin flashes him a narrowed eyed look that's more piercing than Arthur wants to admit. "All right, I do to a certain extent."

"What extent?" Merlin puts down his fork, props his arm on the table and leans his chin on his hands.

Arthur gazes down and drums his fingers on the table. "I was a little more relaxed before."

Merlin is paying attention, brows knitted in thought. Arthur continues, surprising even himself. "Before my father had a heart-attack."

Merlin pales, the expression in his eyes reflecting his concern and perhaps mortification at having led Arthur to speak of this when their conversation had been light.

Arthur finds that he doesn't mind at all, that there's no weight of expectation where Merlin's concerned.

More, he feels Merlin's sympathy oozing off of him and strangely it's okay. Normally, he would have rejected any form of pity.

"He'd always been a very strong and demanding man, my father," says Arthur to explain Uther Pendragon to someone who doesn't know him. "He'd worked hard all his life, came from nothing, and built... quite something. He was merciless, true, but never a fool. Then he had the heart attack. We hadn't been expecting it, of course, but in retrospect we should have."

Merlin's eyes are wide and full of something Arthur doesn't dare analyse. He makes an aborted motion as if he wants to offer some comfort but stills instead, a shadow of a nod, and the set of his lips tells Arthur he's listening. "Now he's not so badly off," Arthur hurries to say. "He's recovered, and by looking at him you would hardly guess."

"But you haven't forgotten."

"No," Arthur admits. "And I haven't forgotten that it's all on my shoulders either."

"Isn't it ever too much?" Merlin's voice comes, quiet and serious.

Arthur doesn't answer but Merlin's foot nudges his and he feels like smiling, like he's made a step towards something tonight. "And what about you, Merlin?"

"Nothing of that sort." He lifts his fork again and spears some salad leaves. He takes a large bite out his sandwich and washes it down with his beer. "My mum has always been a liberal. A do-what-inspires-you kind of person, so I did."

"And your father?"

Arthur realises he's asked the wrong question when Merlin freezes for a few seconds, muscles unbunching only after a few beats. "No dad in the picture. Great, right?"

Arthur doesn't comment. They eat in silence for a while. Arthur's glad he's spoken, that he's chosen now to do it. He's afraid Merlin isn't too happy about his own confession but after a while their silent pause becomes more complicit than not. It gets more relaxed in nature and Arthur dares believe they can go somewhere glorious from here. It's just a hunch but he's never felt so at ease with anyone before.

He dares think it when their hands drift closer and when his foot gets trapped between the both of Merlin's. He dares think it each time their limbs casually graze each other or each time Merlin's smile makes his heart stop for a fraction of a second.

He dares believe in the notion until the airport authority announces that, "Thanks to the improved weather conditions, most flights are now operating. Check with your airline for details concerning your flights."

And that's it, isn't it? This is how they part ways, never to meet again. In a city with eight million people there's no chance in hell of his seeing Merlin again, unless it's concerted. And that's even supposing Merlin actually lives around London. Sure, they could exchange details and phone numbers but Arthur's not sure a chance airport meeting would be enough to cement this thing they've got; he's not sure Merlin will remember once the holiday is over or that he won't meet the love of his life while on holiday.

It's blind panic and the welling churning of his gut that pushes him to blurt out, "Before we board...," which still sounds commonplace enough, "have sex with me." And as he says it he juts his chin out, ready to be slayed by a no.

*****

Elyan picks up on the fourth ring; Leon is relieved to hear the background sound of party noises. At least he's not woken Elyan up. "Leon, is that you?"

"Yeah," says Leon sheepishly, playing with the phone's cord and swivelling in his chair to look at the city lights.

"Leon, mate, I'm having my pre-Christmas Eve party;" says Elyan over some thundering piece of techno music. "Why don't you come over? You and your wife are very welcome to join us."

Leon clears his throat. "I wish I could, Elyan, but that's not exactly the reason I rang."

"Then why did you, Leon?" There are more noises as if Elyan's walking while holding his phone, then opening a door. The music grows less deafening. "It's starting to sound like bad news."

Leon attempts to sound calm and convincing when he says, "It's not bad news per se, but I do need your help."

"If your computer froze because you downloaded porn..." Elyan begins but Leon cuts him off. "No, it's one of Camelot's computers I'm talking about."

The music gets even lower so Leon can better hear what Elyan's saying. "It's the same thing. If your office computer froze because you downloaded some porn--"

Leon slaps a hand on his desk. He's not sure Elyan's heard that but he's pretty positive he will be able to pick up on Leon's raised tone. "No porn whatsoever is involved." This is when Leon's wife walks in and raises an eyebrow. "I think our jobs are in danger."

"That's way more serious than porn."

Leon passes a hand through his bed hair. "I'd say so, yeah."

"So what do you want me to do?" asks Elyan. "And how can I possibly change the situation?"

"I need you to do some hacking, Elyan."

"Oh, shit."

Leon grimaces, saying, "Exactly."

****

Merlin closes the stall's door behind them, hands faltering as he does. He's done this before, once or twice, but it's not as though he's all that familiar with the ins and outs of semi-public sex. And when he had given a go at familiarising himself with this semi-public sex business, Merlin had usually been a little tipsier than this. Neck hot under his collar and pulse thundering on, Merlin turns and faces Arthur.

The artificial light in the stall plays across Arthur's features, highlighting the slight patrician curve of his nose and glinting off his blond head of hair.

Merlin surrenders a smile even though shivers chase up his spine and his knees threaten to give under him.

"Hey," says Arthur. "Hey," running a knuckle down the side of Merlin's face. "I just... I just want you but we don't--"

Because the full measure of his wanting is too embarrassing to put into words, Merlin noses the side of Arthur's jaw, laying wet, sloppy kisses up and down it. If this doesn't convey Merlin's message, he doesn't know what will. He can still feel the awkwardness implicit in being intimate with someone he doesn't really know and couldn't possibly have known to want before. But he lets his body tell him what it is he wants – and there's no doubt as to his wanting Arthur like mad – and goes with the flow.

After this Arthur's going to be gone. Merlin sobs a kiss into his neck.

He works his hand between their bodies, undoing Arthur's belt quickly – no regrets – sliding it out of the loops of his fine woollen trousers, easing down the tiny zip, pulling Arthur's brand new shirt up and out.

Merlin places a hand on Arthur's belly and his mouth to his throat. Arthur tries to move, craning his neck to meet Merlin's mouth, hitching a breath as Merlin splays his fingers wider.

Arthur's saying, "You-- What you're doing to me. It's--" right into his skin, a puff of breath warming the side of Merlin's face.

Merlin unhooks the waistband of Arthur's dark boxers from the tip of his stiffening cock. It bobs free, already red and swollen.

Arthur makes a noise high in his throat and searches for Merlin's mouth again, though Merlin isn't ready for that yet. Instead he pushes Arthur's trousers down, not so far that that it will be difficult for him to get them back up should they be interrupted, but enough so that he can yank Arthur's boxers down and get enough room to palm Arthur's heavy length.

Hissing, Arthur grabs him by the hair, guiding his mouth to his, scraping his teeth along Merlin's jawline along the way, lips melting softly on Merlin's when he touches them. He dips his tongue inside Merlin's mouth and Merlin kisses back, tongue rolling over Arthur's while Arthur's in his hands, hot and rigid.

When Merlin moves his hands in rough movements, Arthur's head snaps up, nostrils flaring, chest caving in under the pressure of a deep in-take of breath. Merlin tugs and twist his wrist, dragging the pad of his thumb across the slit.

Arthur keens, meeting Merlin's gaze with eyes full of warmth and lust and wonder. Withstanding that kind of heat is difficult especially since Merlin isn't ready for it, the emotional aspect of this making him want and want and want so much he's kind of trembling in place. Merlin's lids flutter.

He kneels and presses tiny kisses against Arthur's stomach, kneading Arthur's thighs as he goes, without quite touching Arthur's erection yet. Arthur throws his head back against the stall wall and says, "My god. My god, look at you," but he sounds like someone's just punched him in the gut and driven all the air out of his lungs.

"Yeah," Merlin says though he can't hear his own words because of the blood pulsing a fast rhythm in his ears. "Yeah, look at me."

Arthur ducks his head, looks out of widened eyes, thumbs Merlin's face, his lips and makes Merlin's heart beat so fast Merlin thinks it's going to burst. Merlin's cock aches dully and he's never known himself to want and crave so much as right now.

A moment's hesitation, as if asking for permission, and then Arthur drives his cock past Merlin's nose, slides its tip across Merlin's lips and inside Merlin's mouth.

The taste comes as a bit of a surprise, a little shock of closeness, the smell of Arthur deep in his nostrils. He gently sucks, sliding tongue and lips over him, bathing Arthur in spit and warmth.

Arthur hits the wall behind him with the flat palm of his hand and starts alternately mouthing off and breathing heavily. As he cradles him in one hand, Merlin looks up, and takes in Arthur's red face and sweaty forehead, the hair plastered across it, and the way Arthur's hips snap forward in convulsive little jerks he seems unable to check.

Merlin doesn't stop to catch his breath because he wants Arthur buried deep down his throat; he wants Arthur incoherent, to the point his body takes over and he forgets about self-control.

In a bid to do just that, Merlin moves his lips up and down, laves the head, darting the tip of his tongue into the slit. Arthur's thighs tense, his belly muscles flutter and contract and Merlin knows Arthur's nearly as close as Merlin himself is. He draws back before it's all over, a hand stuffed in his own trousers, chest rising to the tempo of his broken breathing.

"No," Arthur says and then he grunts, hips thrusting a little, Arthur's cock slapping Merlin's face. Merlin suppresses a tiny snort and, throat worked raw, rasps out, "Give me a moment, yeah?"

And Arthur does, threading his fingers through Merlin's hair with no intent to pull him forward, as if he's combing it. It's oddly gentle. Merlin lets his eyes fall shut for a few moments, reeling himself in while enjoying Arthur's touch.

When he takes Arthur in his mouth again, Arthur slipping out at first because Merlin's angled his head wrong, Arthur gives out a deep sob. Merlin's lips push back Arthur foreskin. He licks and nibbles, placing his lips beneath the ridge of the head, and begins to suck again.

Arthur's pulsing in Merlin's mouth now, blurting out a series of strangled, "Please, come on, Merlin, please, come on," that chase all the blood from Merlin's brain and lungs to drive it to his cock. They both moan and Merlin tastes the warm and musky taste of Arthur as his come hits his tongue.

He swallows a little, spits some out and sits back on his haunches, shell-shocked and so turned on he's quivering like a bowstring.

For a few seconds Arthur slumps in place while Merlin unbuttons his jeans and tries to beat off. His hands are shaking and he's making no good job of it; he's so close and so far from orgasm that it hurts and he feels a little bereft, the slapping sound of his hand reverberating in the confined space.

He tries to call back to mind the way Arthur had felt under his hands, hot and trembling but memories fade, and it's not quite enough to push him where he wants to go. He whines low in his throat because this hurts and he feels exposed and he needs the release and he needs a connection.

He's pulling fast, gritty noises exhaled from his throat until Arthur grabs him by the shirt, pulls him upright, backs him against the wall, and bats Merlin's hand off.

"Ah, I--" is all Merlin can articulate at the moment. Another low, pained "ah," is wrenched out of him when Arthur works his grip on Merlin.

It burns and Merlin raves a few incoherent words, head thrashing this way and that. Arthur crowds him, his own trousers down, his limp cock hanging between his legs, his hand working Merlin into a pure frenzy.

"Merlin," Arthur says, cupping Merlin's neck with his free hand, lips ghosting over Merlin's lips, nose, cheeks, jaw, "Let me do this for you. Let me."

Merlin's chest tightens at Arthur's voice; his stomach goes liquid as Arthur deepens his stroke, goes faster and faster, so quick and raw it chafes, and shudders, cock throbbing and spurting come over Arthur's hands.

Wheezing, Merlin manages to focus on Arthur, the pungent smell of sex enveloping them and is a little shocked when, after having put his trousers to rights, Arthur pulls Merlin right into his arms, a whiff of cologne hitting Merlin, Arthur's breath warm as it puffs out and breezes across Merlin's ear.

They stay like that for a while, bodies both lulled into a sense of stupor. Arthur tips Merlin's head to the side, works the ins and out of their relative positions to fit his nose in and kisses Merlin deep and hard and then soft and languid.

There's a last press from Arthur's lips to his and then Arthur draws back.

Merlin says, "My flight," though the last thing he wants now is to board that flight and go on his holiday as if nothing had happened. Yet he's sensible enough to know that he can't postpone it and that even if he did Arthur wouldn't do the same for the sake of a guy he's just met under the auspices of a storm breaking over Heathrow.

Life just doesn't work like that and Merlin would be crazy to think otherwise.

Just as Merlin's about to say something they hear noises indicating that someone is using the next stall but one. Arthur puts his mouth on Merlin's to stifle his words and they end up kissing shallowly, making no noise, trying to breathe as quietly as they can until the man's gone.

"They're boarding," says Arthur, straightening Merlin up himself, doing up the buttons of his jeans and rearranging his shirt so Merlin doesn't look as though he did what he's just done.

"Yeah," says Merlin. "I'd better wash my hands... and my face... need to cool down a little."

Arthur gives him another peck.

"I'm not cooling down," Merlin says.

Arthur pouts.

"We could..." Merlin says, thinking that perhaps he could ask Arthur to give him his number so they could meet again once the holidays are over and Arthur's back.

"Do it again?" asks Arthur, boxing Merlin in once more.

Merlin stifles a laugh; he's so wrecked he doesn't think he could even if he wanted to.

"Not then." Arthur's shoulders slump a little dramatically.

"No," says Merlin, thinking it better if they do this the same way you go about removing a sticky plaster. Quickly and without fuss. "No, I want to look averagely civilised when I get on that plane."

Arthur backs off, leaning against the opposite wall. They need to get out of here before someone surprises them. Before that he would like to swap numbers. Unless that wasn't what Arthur intended when he dragged Merlin in here.

He casts Arthur a look to make sure he's decent, levers off the bolt and pushes the door open. He places his rucksack on the floor, bent on looking for his mobile when there's another announcement. "Last call for BMI flight number 45106. "

"That's you, isn't it?" says Arthur, kneeling by Merlin's side to help him tighten his rucksack's strap. "You'd better go if you don't want to miss your Christmas markets."

Merlin faces the tiles, jerks up, and says, "Yes, of course. Better hurry." Somehow he doesn't think Arthur wanted more than a blow job from a willing idiot when he embarked upon their loos expedition.

"See you around," he says and pushes the door leading back to the terminal open.

***

Merlin's quick, god-damn him. Arthur watches him sprint down the terminal and flash a boarding pass at the boarding crew officer. Soon he disappears from view, a trickle of other people following behind.

Arthur flashes a look at his watch, at the terminal, and at the lounge where the people waiting for the Cyprus flight are waiting.

And decides.

***

  
"How can Elyan help you?" Villia passes him a cup of hot chocolate, perfect for this kind of weather.

Leon tries not to focus on what he's requested of his friend or what's about to come. "It's left off snowing."

"Yeah," Villia says, perching on the desk next to the phone. "It'd be cosy..."

Leon wipes at his forehead even though he's in boxers and the room's cold. "If I hadn't gone and put my job in danger, you mean."

She puts down her own mug and clamps a hand round his forearm, pressing down. "No, if you weren't so nervous. I want you to fight for your job."

"Even if it's very illegal and slightly underhanded?"

She smiles and leans forward to kiss her forehead. "Yeah. We go down fighting."

****

  
The plane is less full than Merlin had expected considering that Gwaine had grabbed the last two tickets at the low price range.

Some of the passengers must have thrown in the towel after the long wait and returned home. Merlin barely bumps into anyone as he makes his way to his seat.

He smiles when he has to stop and wait for the person ahead of him, figuring that if he behaves cheerfully he'll feel more cheerful.

Someone elbows him and doesn't say sorry and Merlin keeps smiling on. He has reason to, doesn't he? He just got laid, and the man he shared the experience with was gorgeous and made him feel as if he was about to burst through his skin. Made his heart beat really really fast and forget everything for a moment. It was so good he's still a little shaky.

He stows his bulging rucksack into the overhead locker and plonks down on the window seat. He looks out at the runway and at the night around him, snow ploughs still working in the background.

He sighs. Gwaine would have slapped his back and said something like, "Way to go, Merlin. You're learning how to live a little." Which is good, Merlin thinks, recognising that he'll never have much fun if he refuses to jump in every time the circumstances aren't exactly right. And this time the circumstances had been of the shittiest but he'd just....

"Is this seat taken?" A round, balding man asks Merlin, startling him out of his reverie.

Merlin blinks, thinking he can still taste Arthur on his lips, and goes, "Yeah, sure."

"That's great," the man says, sticking his cabin bag under the seat in front of him. "I was getting a bit swivel-eyed, you know. Slept three hours in forty. Crappy, crappy weather."

Merlin summons a smile. "Yeah."

"My toes are frozen."

Merlin wiggles his in his boots to make sure he isn't suffering from the same. "Mine are okay."

"Ah," says the old man. "You were wise then and stayed inside the terminal all the time."

Merlin blushes to the roots of his hair. "Yeah, I did."

The man turns awkwardly in his seat so he can face Merlin fully. "Ah, but see, I'm a smoker. I froze my balls off for a fag, that I did."

"Sounds painful."

"That's because it was," the man says, rubbing at his scalp. "But then I wised up and holed up inside."

Merlin tries not to yawn by locking his jaw. "Good, good."

"Thankfully I had my Ludlum with me. Have you read the books?" The man bends down and opens his bag. He slides out two old and battered copies of Ludlum's novels. He makes as if to pass them to Merlin for inspection but stops mid action when there's an interruption.

"Don't close the doors," comes a hoarse voice. "I've got a boarding pass."

The flight attendant exchanges glances with one of her colleagues and nods. "You nearly missed this flight, sir." Merlin can't see much from where he is. He can only make out the flight attendant's quick movements as she checks the boarding pass strip she's been handed.

"Someone must have fallen asleep and nearly missed the boarding call," Merlin's seat neighbour says.

Merlin sinks back down and turns to look at him. "Yeah. After so many hours it's normal, isn't it? We're all past knackered."

"Absolutely," the man agrees. "I had a kip myself between midnight and one. That was my third hour of sleep today."

Merlin's thinking of something to say when he hears a, "Hello, Merlin. I hope you don't mind if I join you?"

"Arthur!" Merlin isn't quite convinced he isn't seeing things because Arthur was meant to be waiting for his own boarding call back at his own gate; he was meant to have put Merlin behind. "You're going to Cyprus."

"Nah," says Arthur. "It seems I'm flying to Zurich."

The flight attendant who's checking on the lockers glowers at Arthur. Arthur swiftly sits down next to Balding Guy. "Nah, I went to the Bim desk and bought a ticket. They still had some and since the flight was parked on the runway they let me."

"Arthur."

Arthur goes red all over, or at least everywhere visible. "This wasn't meant to scare you and if there's a reason you didn't say anything in the –

Balding Guy looks from Arthur to Merlin, rubbing his hands and putting the Ludlum away.

"Before in the... I can fly back home and won't bother you again if you don't want me here."

Merlin gapes.

Balding Guy mimes a few words at him. The last ones are, "Come on; say something."

And Merlin does. "I'd love to share my holiday with you."

Arthur flashes him the brightest of smiles and reaches over to touch Merlin's hand.

Balding Guy sighs from the middle.

**

They kiss and walk backwards into the room, laughing and gasping into each other's mouths. Merlin nips the tip of Arthur's nose. "Let's get rid of these clothes."

"May I remind you these are the only clothes I've got left. My baggage is on its way to be destroyed."

Merlin licks at Arthur's jaw, hands on his belt. "That's because you pulled the craziest, most surprising stunt ever."

Arthur's hands steal under Merlin's shirt and skitter up his spine. "I was hoping that would be read as a romantic gesture."

Merlin kisses Arthur deeply, tongues dragging slow and filthy. "I'll give you romantic," he says, steering Arthur towards the king sized bed.

"Hey, I can be very romantic." He gives Merlin a look that wouldn't look out of place on a whiny puppy, steps out of Merlin's embrace and starts stripping, brisk and efficient.

Merlin rids himself of his shirt. The room's still cold and it's snowing outside though the arousal working its way from his stomach is warming him up.

Merlin's mobile whines its death rattle, signalling that the batteries are going, but he ignores it.

He meets Arthur at the foot of the bed. "I bet you always do grandiose stuff like chasing someone across Europe."

Arthur stops fussing with his leather belt. "No, actually, it's the first time I've done something like this." He bows his head but his eyes are still on Merlin. "You're the first I've done something like this for."

That makes Merlin dip and shake his head to hide a silly smile. They've both been mad, done mad things today, but it feels good. "Am I?" asks Merlin.

"Yes. Just you."

Merlin pushes Arthur's unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders, revealing a toned torso Merlin had guessed at before but not quite seen. Merlin drags the zip of his trousers down, opening them while Arthur does the same to his jeans.

Trousers worked open, they pant open mouthed and stare at each other til the pause shatters and they start touching each other with scorching mouths and trembling hands.

Arthur sucks in kisses on Merlin's throat, pressing his lips to Merlin's neck and giving Merlin little wet licks that send a wave of heat spearing through Merlin.

Arthur's slow, wet kisses work one spot raw; Merlin scuttles closer, hands exploring Arthur's back and chest.

Arthur's fingers stroke through his hair as he peppers kisses all over Merlin's shoulders and face.

They're hot and wet and Merlin pushes into their quasi embrace, fingers chasing the shape of Arthur, committing it to memory, feasting on the warmth and beauty of touch.

Heat stinging at his skin, he goes for Arthur's cock, lets it fill in the cradle of his palm, strokes it, draws his fingers along the length.

Arthur grits his teeth, buries his head in Merlin's neck. "Stop or I'll go and come like a kid having his first fumble."

Merlin stops though he stays put where he is, sliding a hand down Arthur's spine, soothing and greedy both. "Self control's a good thing."

Arthur palms Merlin's hip and kneads it. "Yeah," he exhales. "Very. Especially because..." He hesitates and then rushes the rest out. "I want more than a hand job. Want to have more."

Merlin's nerves are singing. "What kind of more?"

Arthur kisses the spot below Merlin's ear. "I don't want to hurry this. I want to have you nice and slow."

"So you want..."

"A perfect, slow, mind-numbing shagging session."

Merlin chews on his lip to keep from laughing.

Arthur lets go of Merlin and draws the duvet off the bed, chucking trousers, shoes and socks before lying down.

Merlin's startled laugh sets off Arthur too. "Want me to serve you, my lord?"

Arthur folds his arms so he's resting his head on them and hums. "I want you to let me see you for starters."

Merlin ducks his head and pushes down underwear and trousers in one go. He's quick with his socks as well and when he straightens it's to be met by Arthur's frank and lusty appraisal.

"Come here," Arthur says huskily and Merlin walks to his side of the bed.

When he gets close enough, Arthur leans towards him, gives his cock a squeeze-tug that makes Merlin's hips slot forward of their own volition and puts his lips to the tip, giving it a swirl and suck.

Merlin has to pinch his nails into his palms to be able to stave off the orgasm about to wash over him. It'd be easy to let go, to be washed clean of it, but he wants Arthur more than he wants immediate satisfaction. He had that earlier and it wasn't enough.

Arthur seems to notice that Merlin's coiled taut, so he stops mouthing at Merlin's prick, saliva strings still connecting Arthur's mouth and the head of Merlin's cock. "Got any condoms or lube?"

Merlin steps back though his legs are doing their damnedest to make him crumple down. He rummages inside his rucksack, butt naked and hands shaking badly. He tries not to meet Arthur's eyes, not to show how affected he is. He unzips a side pocket and gets at what he wants, except that a shower of foil packets scatters across his feet.

Arthur coughs and gets his attention, cocking an eyebrow at him. "Expecting to get laid a lot on holiday, Merlin?"

Merlin stammers. Then he manages to say more clearly, "It wasn't me, I swear."  
Arthur's eyebrow stays in place. "You can tell me if you'd planned that. I didn't know you when you did."

"No!" Merlin says, standing up suddenly, cock springing up like the idiot part of Merlin's anatomy it sometimes is. "That was Gwaine. He does this kind of stuff. Not that I let him paw my things. And not that I'm a hopeless case of non-shaggability..."

Arthur laughs. "I was yanking your chain, Merlin."

Merlin's cheeks puff out, going red.

"Come here." Arthur provocatively slides a hand down his torso.

"Only if you say, 'I'm sorry for pulling your leg, Merlin.'"

"I'm not sorry because you're all flushed and that's hot in my books."

Armed with condoms and lube, Merlin goes to him, but bites Arthur's upper lip as a form of retaliation.

The retaliation doesn't last long, since Arthur opens to him like a thirsting man drinking water for the first time in quite some time.

Merlin gets busy tasting Arthur, dipping his tongue under his, kissing him as thoroughly as he can.

Arthur splays his hand on Merlin's arse, drags him downwards in a way that has Merlin straddling him so as not to lose his balance.

Merlin drops the condoms and lube on the pillow next to Arthur, bracing his arm next to Arthur's head.

In the position they're in their cocks are brushing and both move into it, trying to recreate the spark that makes their pleasure mount.

It's like everything springs from there, as if the ache, the pleasure-pain between his legs is the be all and end all of everything. Except Arthur's still kissing him as though he could do that forever, lips on lips, tongue on lips, tongue on tongue, deep and then not, passionate and deep one moment, shallow and sweet the next.

It tugs at Merlin's heartstrings as does the way Arthur's holding his face in place and the way his legs bracket Merlin and squeeze from time to time as though Arthur can't quite bear to let go.

Merlin wishes it were so because he doesn't know if he can. Not after this. He kisses Arthur because he can't stop; he trails his fingers over every part of Arthur's body he can reach and explore.

They're moving, touching, thrusting. The slow drag of flesh on flesh; the tight hold of arms, the liquid warmth that pools in Merlin's belly all make him feel as though this isn't comparable to anything else.

Arthur parts his legs for Merlin, resettles him with a big hand on Merlin's hip, lips kiss swollen, arms tight around Merlin, so tight it's a bit like a vise and a bit like comfort.

Arthur guides Merlin's hand between them. The skin there is vulnerable-soft and puckered.

Arthur's shiny with sweat, red like a squalling infant. When Merlin skims his fingers across his hole, Arthur goes slack-mouthed.

"That was what you wanted?" Merlin asks. "Please, Arthur, tell me."

Arthur bears down on his finger and that's answer enough, but Merlin wants to hear him say it. "Arthur?"

"Yes." Arthur cants his hips up.

Merlin goes for the lube, tearing the packet open with fingers that won't obey his will. He makes a bit of a mess of it, squeezing too much out. He lowers his eyes and laughs at himself. "There, now you know I'm a clumsy oaf."

Smile tugging at his lips, Arthur sits up and snatches a flying peck from Merlin before sinking down again. "Do your worst," he says in a deep booming voice and Merlin laughs again only this time it's a light-hearted peal.

Sweat breaks out on Merlin's skin as he works Arthur open; blood rushing at his temples as he tries to go about it in a way that will not hurt or be uncomfortable. Arthur, though, seems to be of a different mind, for he forces it, arches up and into the touch, apparently relishing the burn of Merlin's fingers inside him.

"Yes!" It's a grunt and Merlin pushes his fingers in a little more forcefully. He works Arthur to within an inch of orgasm, jabbing, prodding, massaging, swiping his thumb down his perineum when he's withdrawing.

He helps Arthur turn so he can lie face down; plasters himself behind his back. Skin catches instead of gliding no matter how bathed in sweat they both are.

"Is this okay?" Merlin murmurs into Arthur's ear. He sees Arthur's Adam's apple plunge and he makes out the silent movement of his lips.

Merlin puts a hand on the headboard, bracing himself, and Arthur reaches for it, pulls it down, slots their fingers together.

Breathless, in an agony of pleasure, Merlin uses his free hand to work himself inside Arthur, past the initial resistance, past the mind-blowing moment where there's only warmth and the tight pressure of Arthur around him.

He finds his seat slowly, hips inching infinitesimally forward, little by little, action punctuated by their little sobs.

They're both shaking with it, and for a few long moments Merlin stills, fighting the rush of feeling, staving off orgasm.

He can't reason much past it the way his body feels, but blinks through the rivulets of sweat, and pays attention to Arthur, to Arthur goading him by placing a hand on his thigh, to Arthur's bitten off noises and rocking body.

They set up a rhythm like that, Merlin responding to Arthur, Arthur pressing back. It's slow and luxurious, Merlin's breath on the nape of Arthur's neck, Arthur's fingers clamping down on Merlin's, Arthur’s profile a thing of beauty, until it's not slow anymore, and Merlin gets to his knees and starts slamming in.

They don't speak, but they make noise. It's not very loud, grunts mostly and the sounds of flesh on flesh, but each and every one of Arthur's deep, throaty moans turns Merlin on more and more till his hips start doing their own thing, stammering on.

Merlin's close and he's loving it, loving Arthur, so he just kisses wherever he can reach, no art and no grace to anything he's doing but a mad, mad desire to stay close, cherish, have.

And Arthur moves into him with a relish and abandon that are really Merlin's undoing.

He comes hard and it seems to last long, spreading from pelvis to spine, til he slumps over Arthur's back, preserving enough presence of mind to take Arthur in hand and pull and pull and stroke till Arthur pumps into his hand with abandon.

As he comes, cock twitching, Arthur throws his head back and lets all his muscles go slack. Merlin kisses his temple, noses the back of his neck, and wraps his arms around Arthur, who's now sitting on his haunches, lips parted, body covered in a fine sheen of sweat, the flush covering his neck and torso only slowly receding.

Merlin rubs his lips over a tiny section of skin on Arthur's shoulder, going over it until he feels his lips tingling. "God, I love you," he blurts out. He's so blissed out it takes him a few moments to parse what he's said. "I love you like this," he adds quickly. "Like this – I."

"I liked it better without qualifiers," Arthur says, twisting and uncoiling so he can sit facing the foot of the bed. "No pressure."

He takes Merlin's face in his hands and gives him another kiss, this one lazy and satisfied, as if he's staking a claim and Merlin would feel like jumping out of his skin, elated, if not for the cosy torpor blanketing him.

This doesn't mean to say he doesn't kiss Arthur with all he has, even if his eyelids droop and he's getting no points for finesse.

"You need to sleep." Arthur has Merlin's head in a lock but he doesn't use it to tease; he manhandles Merlin so he's lying back down, a comma around Arthur, Arthur's heavy arm slung across his waist.

"Sleep," Arthur says.

Before Merlin succumbs to the drowsiness, he flicks a look at the window. When he looks at the dawning day, he makes his smile as big as he can and then says, "It's snowing and it's Christmas Eve."

 

****

 

"This is just because you're my brother and you'll owe me till you turn eighty."

Elyan bows his head sheepishly. "Let's make it seventy-five and I promise--"

Leon elbows Elyan mightily, almost knocking him off his feet. "Elyan, your sister is the only security guard who'll let us in without Arthur vouching for us, and without proof I'm not asking Arthur to get us in. It's his family I'd be slandering."

"But," Elyan objects, "she'll blackmail me till the end of days."

"That's what sisters are supposed to do, mate."

Gwen waves them through the security turnstile, turns and punches a set on numbers on a wall grid pad. The door that is usually thrown open on workdays but tightly shut on holidays slides free. "This is more than my job's worth."

"Gwen," says Leon in as reasonable a tone as he can. "I know we're asking a lot of you, but not letting us in would have been worse for your job in the long run."

Gwen scrunches up her nose. "How so?"

"I can't explain." Leon slips through the door. "Not till I have factual back up. Let's just say that Arthur is a better employer that many other people would be."

Gwen smiles radiantly. "Arthur is the best CEO there is. I have faith in him."

Leon has to ask. "That doesn't mean you would let us into a specific office, does it?"

She shakes her head, loose curls brushing her shoulders. "There's no way I'd do that. I don't fancy a Christmas in prison."

Elyan sneaks in past Leon. "That's not a problem. Single office alarm systems are easier to get past."

And that proves true. Elyan manages to get the door to du Bois' office to open without truly breaking and entering.

They pad into the office even though there's no reason to; since it's Christmas Eve morning nobody's on this floor, not even the cleaning crew. Unless Du Bois decides to pop in himself because he forgot something, they're in the clear.

"I'm not touching the safe," says Elyan. "That's more criminal than any bit of hacking."

Leon smiles. "If I'd wanted to steal data that way I wouldn't have called you." He waves his arms at the sleek computer sitting on du Bois' desk. "I want you to retrieve all the files he printed in the last month or so. Can you do that?"

Elyan slides into du Bois' chair. "That's fairly easy; even if the PC's password protected. But why do you think he stored sensitive data in here?" He pats the monitor. "If I had something to hide I wouldn't dream of saving it on the company PC."

"And I wouldn't dream of printing it and putting it in the safe but, Elyan, du Bois went all shifty when he realised I'd caught him putting documents in there. Why would he even look like that if he wasn't doing something he thinks wrong?"

Elyan rolls his eyes and starts the computer. "So basically we're trusting your hunch."

"Yeah."

Leon takes to pacing while Elyan's fingers race on the keyboard. Elyan hums, curses to himself, and tuts a little. There's more finger tapping as Leon's stomach does somersaults.

It vaults right into his throat when a dark-haired suited man stalks down the corridor, Elyan and he dive behind desk and armchair respectively so as not to be seen.

Luckily enough the guy disappears into lift number three without even having noticed any disturbance coming from du Bois' office.

It takes a while for Elyan to surface from under the desk and for Leon to peek out from behind the armchair but they do when the printer starts working.

"What are you doing?" asks Leon in a very low voice.

"Printing everything again."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh." Elyan makes a face and collects a stack of some forty to fifty pages. "There's more but I was thinking we should start off with this bunch."

Leon walks over to Elyan, still wary of being surprised while in here. Elyan hands him the files and Leon starts skimming them. After two or three minutes – and if it takes him so little it's because organising files is his daily bread – his eyes light on something that sets Leon's alarm bells pealing.

"Eureka," he says, half-glad he'd been right all along, half-concerned about the discovery he's just made.

"Does this help?" Elyan asks.

"You can bet on it," Leon answers. "We need to warn Arthur."

****

Arthur has always vowed he would change his ringtone and always postponed actually doing so. He swears he wants to because it's loud and obnoxious, particularly so when he's been sleeping nicely, but he's used to it as he's used to his old slippers, which have a hole, and so never does get around to it.

However when he hears it, he sits up in bed and dives for the phone so as not to wake Merlin. He allows himself one small smile before barking a curt and admittedly put out, "Yes!"

"Arthur," comes Leon's voice, "There's something I need to tell you."

Wanting to let Merlin snooze on, Arthur says, "Can you wait a moment?" puts on yesterday's trousers and shirt, and slips out of the room without letting the door fall completely shut. "Yeah, I'm here."

"Arthur," says Leon, paper shuffling noise in the background. "I've found out something and it's very important."

Arthur grins into the phone and starts walking to and fro. "Why, Leon, and here I was believing you wanted me to have fun while on holiday." He about-faces so as not to lose sight of his – Merlin's room – and smiles like a fool once more even though Leon can't see him. "And I followed your advice. I'm having the time of my life, with a great person. So no more calling me a workaholic behind my back."

Leon smacks his lips overly loudly. "Arthur, I'm glad, though I'm sorry it's happened now."

"You're beating around the bush." Arthur suddenly starts feeling cold and Leon's tone is not helping. Leon's always serious, true, but benignly so, tone always calm and modulated. He seldom goes out of his way to express worry or elation.

"Possibly," says Leon. "You sound quite cheery there, more so than I've heard you in a while, and I don't like the idea of being the bearer of bad news."

"But there's bad news."

Leon gurgles but then spits it out. "Yesterday I forgot to ask you for an extra signature so I popped by your uncle's office to get it from him. He did sign but he behaved very oddly. He was startled when I surprised him rifling in his safe."

Arthur bursts out laughing. "Is that your bad news?"

"Unfortunately, there's more," says Leon, contrition back in his tone. "I was sure he was hiding something from me. More so since there was this weird guy slinking out of his office. But I put it all behind me, and then me and my wife had a chat."

Arthur snorts, not needing the verbal detour. "I suppose this is all going somewhere and it's not just a description of your marital happiness."

"It is." There's one more voice in the background and Arthur thinks it familiar though he can't pin it down for the moment. "My wife said her boss advised her not to buy Camelot shares because someone from within had told him Camelot wasn't sound."

"That's preposterous!" snaps Arthur. He'd very much like to wring the neck of whoever had spread that rumour. He has the numbers. Camelot is more than financially sound. As the new CEO Arthur's making investments that not everybody might understand, but he's working for Camelot's expansion and some things are a question of foresight, patience, and instincts.

"But that's what the man said," Leon says gently. "And he might have a reason to say that."

Arthur harrumphs. A hotel guest sashays past him and eyeballs him. Arthur concentrates on his phone conversation. "I seriously doubt that."

"Arthur, I had a nightmare about your uncle and it seems my subconscious wasn't too far off."

Arthur is very sceptical; the noise he makes indicates that.

"Arthur, I'm serious," says Leon. In the background someone says, "Get to the point!" and Arthur starts to suspect it's Elyan from IT, the tech wizard who fixes everything at Camelot.

Leon decides it's time to use the big guns for his tone changes when he says, "Elyan and I found some documents that prove that your uncle is trying to buy out extra shares from Camelot shareholders so he can become the major one and oust you."

"Crap," says Arthur, raking a hand through his hair. "That's impossible. The man's family." And he is, isn't he? He's his mum's brother and for that alone he ought to be trustworthy. If Arthur couldn't trust the man who'd shared a childhood with her, who could he trust? Could he – should he confide in Leon when Leon was basically slandering a family member?

"Arthur, believe me, I don't like this any more than you do but it's all in black and white. There's e-mails attesting to his activities. There's a new order of the day ready for January 3rd and an item he wants to put to the vote. He basically intends to charge you of bad administration. There's a point-by-point illustration of the reasons why you're shit at steering Camelot, and he wants to take the board with him."

"He can't," says Arthur. "I'm still the major shareholder."

"The private correspondence he's got going with old Monmouth and your stepsister says that won't be the case if those two and a few others sell out to him. He's telling them you take too many bets and that their future assets will be in danger if they don't get far-sighted and go with him."

"Leon," says Arthur soberly. "Are you very sure?"

"I can forward you the mails and other scanned documents. If you don't believe me, you'll have to take the hard facts."

Arthur could now choose to be stubborn and refuse to acknowledge Leon's denunciation, or to trust him. Leon's been faithful through the years and Arthur can't close his eyes when the man says he's got proof. "All right." He sits cross-legged before the door to Merlin's room, legs giving out from under him. "I'm flying back home. Whatever my uncle's planned, we'll pre-empt him. Call a meeting for Christmas Day."

"You've got to be joking."

"I'm not," says Arthur sharply. "I'm going to be on the next flight home. Get a car ready. There's no time to lose. I've got to show the other board members I'm on top of things."

"Okay, Arthur." Leon sounds his competent self when he says, "I'll send Percival to meet you."

They hang up at the same time.

Arthur doesn't pick himself up as soon as the call's over, though, and remains seated at the door like a dog before his master's house.

His stomach is churning. The prospect of losing his inheritance and disappointing both his father and his employees scares him. It's everything his father had built and striven for and Arthur is losing it.

He has probably made mistakes in going his own way without explaining his vision to the older board members, but he'd been convinced he'd taken the necessary steps towards the modernisation of the company.

He can see how his uncle might have insinuated himself with the board members, however, suggesting Arthur had never been a pioneer but a madman.

Arthur slaps his thigh. What a fool he'd been. He'd give everything to have reason to suspect Leon is wrong but his instinct tells him he isn't. He'd give a lot to know that Agravaine has nothing against him personally, but right now he isn't too sure of that either.

And then there's Merlin. They've got something fantastic. Right, it's the product of a single night together but Arthur feels he wants to get to know Merlin, spend time with him. He wants to make love, have fun, tell Merlin things.

The mere thought of getting back into that room and telling Merlin that, hey, he's got to fly back, makes his guts twist horribly and his hands shake. He wants to be selfish and stay, stay cooped up in their room, lying naked on the bed till the new year rolls around and he can celebrate it with a snog and shag. A fantastic one. He can picture it already. Because, stupidly, he thinks he and Merlin could work together, could have something glorious if he only gives it time.

True, it might be his lust and his loneliness talking but he's convinced that it's not that and that he could and should grab this thing they've got with both hands. Stick to the idea of them.

But he's got a duty, to himself and to his recuperating father. Fuck. He's got to fly back to London. He gathers himself and slowly climbs to his feet, pushing the door open.

He walks to the bed, light from outside washing in and making Merlin's head glow. He puts a hand on Merlin's shoulder and leans down. "Hey, Merlin, wake up!"

Merlin mumbles something that sounds like _lemmesleep_ , and swats him away.

Arthur shakes him again, but gets much the same result.

He resolves to do some net surfing to book his flight and let Merlin sleep some more. He does it on his phone and finds to his chagrin that all flights but the midday one are booked. Boarding is by eleven twenty and it's a little past ten now.

He's barely got time to wash, dress, get to the airport and through security. He curses and books it all the same. When he's got a booking code, he pronounces himself satisfied but before heading towards the bathroom he tries once more to wake Merlin. He gets a, "Fuck you, Will," for an answer.

Arthur decides to let Merlin sleep.

He washes and puts on yesterday's clothes but for a jumper of Merlin's he feels he needs to filch if he doesn't want to smell too badly. And it's not because he's a sap and wants to keep something of Merlin's.

Ten minutes later he gives Merlin another rattle and shake but Merlin is sleeping beatifically on. He frowns when Arthur touches him and his features smooth out when Arthur lets go of him.

Well, Arthur reflects, they'd both fallen asleep towards dawn.

Nothing for it but leave. He won't do that though without leaving a message first. He wants to see Merlin again and again, fuck it. He tries Merlin's high tech mobile but however up to date and expensive, the blasted little contraption can't memorise numbers – namely Arthur's – when its batteries are so very, very dead Arthur can't even call up the main screen, let alone use any other feature.

He crosses the room and settles for leaving an old fashioned sort of message, using the hotel stationery. He writes Merlin a quick version of what happened, tells him, by underlining the words thrice that he wants to see him again and tops it all off by penning the following,

CALL ME. 07922 442344

He folds the piece of paper in two, thinks better of it because he wants the message to be both legible and in plain sight, and walks towards the in-room breakfast facility.

He props the message on the coffee machine, feeling sure Merlin will see it; it's close to the door, facing the bathroom and right where the caffeine is.

This done, he kisses Merlin's forehead and leaves for the airport.

****

Helga Kreuzter is late. The hotel has six floors and she's barely managed the first two. She's off earlier today because it's a festivity and still needs to clean the rooms on floor 4, 5 and 6.

She will have to be quicker about it today; she wants to be out by lunch time so she can see her nephews and nieces who are coming down from Neuhausen for the express purpose of visiting her.

She does rooms 401 to 414 in half an hour but wastes time when reception tells her to ensure that room 356 has a change of toiletries. By the time she's back in the service lift she's left with less than an hour to do two floors.

They will have to be sorted quickly. She makes good time, doing each room in under two minutes. Since she's on a roll she blusters into room 512. Which is when she notices that there's still clearly someone inside, sleeping on the bed. The curtains are pulled and a soft snore punctuates the silence.

She splutters out a, "Sorry, this is cleaning. There was no do not disturb sign." Her English is tentative but she realises she's made a mistake in speaking at all when the man – the naked man in the bed – actually wakes up. Fuck, she might have slipped out unseen.

"What?" the man croaks, eyes blood shot and hair all standing up. "I--"

"Never mind," she says, "Someone will come back later."

In a flurry she closes the door after herself, not so much because she hasn't seen her share of naked, ruffled men, but because she wants to avoid a dressing down of epic proportions from both the guest and management.

She's about to hurry to the end of the corridor when she notices a piece of notepaper fluttering down. It must have been swept away by her shutting the door forcefully. She bends and picks it up. There's a phone number scribbled on it and a 'call me', but the rest of the note doesn't seem important.

It might be because she doesn't understand English all that well, but she's sure she'd get it if it was something of vital importance.

She looks back over her shoulder at rom 512 and decides not to knock again and tempt fate.

The guest might get angry or think she'd taken the note on purpose. Misplacing personal communications between guests would be frowned upon. She doesn't fancy being sacked over such a stupid incident.

Helga pockets the note and pushes the cleaning cart away from the door to room 512, her conscience only prickling a little.

****

When Merlin wakes up properly, it's to find out that Arthur's not there. At first he thinks Arthur's gone down for breakfast or lunch.

Therefore he whistles under the shower, smiling up at the shower head while he keeps his eyes closed and lets the water rinse away sweat and body odours deriving from a night of sex.

He breaks out into an even wider smile. Who'd have thought? He starts singing _I'll Be Home For Christmas_ as he goes for washing his hair and continues humming carols while he towels himself dry.

He dresses quickly because it's very cold despite the generous heating but then flops on the bed wearing a thick jumper and fleece socks.

As he waits for Arthur to come back, banking on midday sex and then perhaps a visit to the famous Christmas markets, he decides to call his friends back home, and not because he wants to tell them about Arthur, but because he feels like checking on Gwaine's latest adventures and on Will too. Okay, maybe he feels too big for his skin and needs to use some of their bubbling energy powering him up, but he won't mention Arthur. Arthur's too special for a casual mention anyway. How would he even begin to describe him or what he does to Merlin?

"Hello," says Gwaine blearily. "I was sleeping off a torrid night of sex so whoever this is, call back later."

"Gwaine!" chirps Merlin. "It's me."

"Merlin, it's so early."

"Not that early," objects Merlin, switching the phone from ear to ear. "It's late enough for you to be enjoying the day."

Gwaine grunts. "So you got laid."

"No!" Merlin blatantly lies. He doesn't want to be teased by Gwaine. "Just no, Gwaine."

"You're a lying liar who lies." Merlin can hear the noise made by the springs of Gwaine's mattress. "I can hear it in your tone, Merlin. You're perky."

"That would mean that I'm not usually perky," Merlin says. "Which is just not true, because I'm a laid back, good humoured and generally nice person."

"Yeah," Gwaine says, still sleepily, "but you never sound like Tweety on a high either, so I vote for you having had a night of semi-steamy sex with some bloke or other."

Merlin squawks. "Why only semi?"

"Because you're not uninhibited enough."

Merlin laughs. "Yeah because you are..."

"You can bet on it."

Heather's voice – or at least Merlin feels safe to say it's Heather – wafts over. "Don't be so loud, Gwaine, or I'll sleep it off at home."

There's kissing on the other end of the line. "Well, have a nice and sexy holiday, Merlin, I've got to go."

And he really does go, leaving Merlin to flipping channels – mostly German and French ones but for the lone BBC World choice – as he waits on Arthur.

When it's well past lunchtime and Arthur hasn't showed up, Merlin tries to think of reasons that might have prevented Arthur from getting back quickly. Maybe he's gone shopping for clothes or has had to make phone calls to cancel his other holiday. Maybe he's found an internet café and is skyping to tell his people at home where he is.

A lot of maybes dart through Merlin's mind. But the maybes do nothing to blot out the sinking feeling that comes over him as the hours go by.

By mid-afternoon, Merlin is fairly sure that no ordinary setback is keeping Arthur away. So, yeah, Merlin isn't stupid but he still tells himself that Arthur is a good bloke – you can't fake some things, can you – and that he'll be back.

When footsteps thunder down the corridor outside, Merlin goes to the door and opens it. The footsteps don't belong to Arthur though. It's just the room service guy dashing past.

Merlin hangs his head and lets the door click shut.

After a solitary meal and a few more hours spent in his room, Merlin sits at his desk, facing the mirror, and drops his head in his hands. "Stupid," he mutters. "Stupid."

He's got to acknowledge the truth, hasn't he?

He has been dumped.

He waits some more just to be a hundred percent sure but by seven o'clock it becomes irrefutable.

Merlin has been ditched without a good-bye or thank you for the time spent together. Arthur has legged it, preferring not even to face Merlin, to be honest with him and say Merlin's okay for a one night stand but nothing more, not even a friendly pat on the back.

Merlin kicks the mini bar door, leaving a trainer shaped indent. It's not as if he was expecting to get married but he'd thought they'd gone for this thing together, like equal partners, and the fact that Arthur hasn't even said good-bye makes Merlin feel like a loser and like he was no one's equal at all. Which is depressing.

But no, he tells himself, it's not Merlin who's the loser – okay a little bit – it's Arthur Pendragon who's the tosser.

A big prattish tosser who's made Merlin's heart ache for him.

****

Leon intercepts him before he can enter the meeting room. "They're all here but for Ms Faye."

Arthur nods his head and clutches the folders he's brought with him. He spent his time on the plane and at home yesterday printing out data that supports his investment choices, an outline of his intentions and projects, and various spreadsheets and prospectuses.

It's helped that, thanks to Leon and Elyan, he knows which points dear Uncle Agravine made to undermine him so he can counter each one in turn.

He wants to swat Agravaine like he would an insect; reading his bullet pointed reasons why Arthur's been a bad administrator has made Arthur a little more than belligerent.

As Leon opens the door for him, Arthur's stomach flips and turns as the sofas Fred Astaire tipped down and vaulted over during his dance routines did.

All board members are seated around a large oval glass table, dressed in their best suits, upright, stunned and twitching.

As Arthur drops the stacks of folders on the table so Leon can distribute them around, Uncle Agravaine's previously unconcerned, confident smile becomes a touch more tentative though it doesn't evaporate. Yet his posture is still relaxed as that of a man who's certain of his position.

So as not to be encumbered, Arthur unbuttons his jacket and starts pacing around the table, humming and tutting.

After a while, both of Geoffrey of Monmouth's bushy eyebrows shoot up in a clear show of indignation. "What is the meaning of this meeting? On a holiday to boot!"

Arthur loosens his tie and faces Geoffrey. "Some things have come to my attention."

Agravaine goes for a would-be serene smile.

"If you read the brief I've prepared, you'll be brought up to date as to Camelot's financial situation, future quarter revenues, and six month planning schedule as to our buy out proposals and takeovers."

Geoffrey flips through the pages. "I can see there's plenty of graphs."

"It's all in black and white." Arthur leans against the table, satisfied that he and Leon were able to put all this together at such short notice.

David Lamorak frowns. "A board meeting was scheduled for early February. I don't see the reason for this meeting today."

"Wasn't there a board meeting scheduled for early January?" a board member asks.

Agravaine shifts in his seat, eyebrows twitching. He's drumming his fingers on the glass surface of the table in a way that's making even Arthur anxious.

"Indeed, I think you'll find there was," says Arthur, picking at his nails. "Though that didn't come from my office and I knew nothing about it til a certain little bird let me know."

Agravaine smiles a tight smile.

"But I was sure you had to be involved," says Lamorak.

More board members nod.

"Well, no," says Arthur. "Because it came from my uncle."

Most board members relax.

"Bypassing me," says Arthur. "You see--" He stands again and takes to pacing. "My uncle wanted to circumvent me, trying to buy the majority quota of shares. He was in talks with Mr Monmouth--"

"That was just because I want to retire from business." Mr Monmouth has never actually turned so puce in his life nor have his eyebrows ever tried to climb higher.

"And my step sister, who was given shares by my father."

"That was entirely legal," Agravaine defends. He stands up, leaning on the table. "I'm fond of this company and think it's my future."

"Which is why you've been discrediting us on the market, I suppose?"

Agravaine straightens and Arthur walks up to him. They're standing nose to nose, Agravaine's nostrils flaring, colour high on Arthur's cheeks. "That's not--"

"What, true?" Arthur cocks his head as though he's confused. "But it is."

Agravaine steps closer, so their chests bump. "You're willing to bet on the future of a small publishing group and spend money on it. You think it's a good idea but I don't. That's all there is to it."

"It is a very sound idea!" Arthur shoots back. "The world is changing and so does the way we do business. Mass media are the future."

Agravaine hums patronisingly. "I have only one question to ask." He pauses dramatically and tilts his head to address all board members. "Would your father have done this?"

A few murmurs of agreement fall from the board members' lips. They are coming from the old guard, the men who built Camelot together with his father. As he expected, they are expressing their support to Agravaine for old times' sake.

Arthur can see that Agravaine has played it rather well, hinting at the one thing that would sway them, at the beliefs of the one man Arthur loves too much to defy.

"No, he wouldn't," Arthur says. "Of course he wouldn't."

Agravaine's expression is triumphant. He thinks he's winning this, the bastard.

In fact, Monmouth seems to be wavering on the verge of supporting him openly and so is another old friend of his father's.

"I rest my case," says Agravaine, voice smooth. "Uther would not have wanted this."

"My father was an excellent businessman," Arthur tells the board. He makes a sweeping gesture meant to encompass the building that represents the empire his father built. "Was he successful? Yes, he was. Did he make you all a bit richer? He did. But towards the end of his administration, he wasn't the same man he'd been. And how could he have been? He was getting ill. But because of his failing health, he made mistakes. He kept to his business routines and partners while he ignored a large section of the market. In good conscience I can't do the same."

Agravaine places a hand on the table and opens his mouth to begin a new harangue. "And yet this love of yours for the new media," he says, "a love your father didn't approve of, might I add, is what's pushing you to make decisions that might be dangerous for the future of this company. And you dare accuse me..."

Agravaine is being persuasive and Arthur himself would be moved by his tone and words if he didn't have the hard facts.

Monmouth apparently doesn't have them or prefers a dose of old-world panache to statistics, for he juts his chin out and nods vigorously.

Leon makes a panicked face at Arthur, for they both know that if Monmouth sells out to Agravaine and more of his friends follow in his footsteps, Arthur's out as CEO. Arthur makes a quick sign with his hand though and smiles. He hasn't lost this yet. He can't lose this. He owes his people. "I follow stock-markets trends."

"Fluctuating stock-market trends." The sneer in Agravaine's tone would have made the potted plants in the office wither if this were a cartoon.

"That's how the economy works, Uncle," says Arthur.

"It' more complicated than that," Agravaine counters rather smugly. "You're merely betting on outcomes you can't be sure of when there are safer paths to follow."

"But it's not as simple as that either," says Arthur. "I want to expand. Explore other sources of revenue."

"And that is why you shouldn't be at the helm," says Agravaine. "You're too young. You follow your heart as impetuous people might do. But our generation still has a trick or two up our sleeves."

Agravaine garners more general consensus. "Several financial analysts agree with me and think that with a different lead Camelot--."

Arthur is close to doing violence but he keeps still, his voice steely. "Which financial analysts?"

"People from the city." Agravaine's lips become a thin, severe line and his shoulders grow taut.

Arthur knows that this is the route he has to pursue if he wants to show the board members what his uncle has been up to.

"Like the people you told we weren't sound?" Arthur asks. "Why would you do that, Uncle, if you think your future is with us?"

This time more than one board member scowls at Agravaine.

"I--" Agrvaine, says, looking to the door as a source of safety. "I'm..."

"I'll tell you why," Arthur pushes. "It's because you were publicly discrediting me. A thing you wouldn't have done even if you held Camelot dear. Approaching the board? I can see that. People outside Camelot? That's sabotage."

"No, that's not--"

"But I have proof of what you did. Just as I can prove that you doctored data and reports so as to make it look as though I didn't know what I was doing." He points at the documents that were handed to the board membes. "You were doing this because you want Camelot's funds for yourself and you don't care about how you get there."

The game's up; Agravaine's face morphs into a rictus of anger. "And I'd have the right!" Agravaine's veneer of calm is completely gone.

And thanks to that display, Arthur has Agravaine by the balls. "How so?" he asks nonchalantly. "Camelot was my father's brainchild."

A vein in Agravaine's temple is now throbbing and his face is thunderous. "Your mother promised me I'd get something when she was worrying she wouldn't survive her pregnancy, but Uther ignored her words because she died before she could do anything about it."

"So you want the money?"

"Some of that money's mine!" Agravaine yells, hair standing up, spittle flying. "I was your father's advisor for a long time before Ygraine died. I have a right to his money. It's mine."

Arthur smiles, steps back and waves a hand at Agravaine. "And that is the man some of you wanted to back over me."

All eyes turn to Agravaine; some show sympathy but most of them are full of disapproval. Agravaine has never been slow to gauge the mood of the people around him. He places a hand on his stomach, Napoleon-style, turns on his heels and flees the room.

Arthur faces the board members. "I hope that after this you'll come to me if you have doubts."

The board members express their solidarity in chorus.

****

Merlin keeps to his holiday's schedule. As he's told Arthur, he's there to hit the old town Christmas markets and so he does, because he won't let what happened affect him in any way, shape or form.

Merlin is so above being dumped. So he buys gifts for his friends and mementoes for himself, he tastes some of the good food he finds at vendors' stalls and treats himself to some delectable local specialities he can't name but he's happy to chomp on.

Not even the glacial weather, his perpetually runny nose, or the fact he can't feel things while wearing gloves 24/7 affect him. He buys himself a ticket for the circus and enjoys it, clapping loudly, awwing and ahhing along with the rest of the audience.

He takes a walking tour of the town and one of the surrounding areas even though the he has to rush through the first to make it to the second.

He's busy as a bee and very happy.

Nothing's missing. Merlin is perfectly fine. Merlin doesn't need anyone to share this with.

That's what he tells the woman he bumps into on the ice skating rink. "I'm not useless!"

His woollen gloves are all wet and the ice is an uncomfortable surface to sprawl on.

"I didn't mean to say you were. You're just a little graceless on ice," the woman tells him.

"Well." Merlin picks himself laboriously up, slip sliding every three seconds or so until the woman braces him. "You and Arthur can believe what you want but I'm.... I'm resourceful and nice and great in bed actually."

The woman gapes, frowns, gapes some more and says, "And who's Arthur?"

"The right tosser who doesn't know what he's lost."

"Riiiight." The woman takes a step back from him. "Since you didn't break anything..." She points backwards with her thumb. "I'll get going..."

"Yeah, go. That's the solution to all problems, isn't it! Non-confrontation!"

The woman skates quickly away, leaving Merlin to complain to himself.

After that things settle a little. Merlin makes the executive decision not to mention Arthur anymore to anyone and enjoys himself. He truly, truly does. And when New Year's Eve rolls around Merlin goes to watch the fireworks display hosted by the Zurich Hoteliers’ Association. During which he a) gets pissed b) gets a cold because of Zurich's sub polar winter temperatures and c) exchanges germs by way of a couple of filthy celebratory kisses traded when the town hall clock strikes midnight.

Overall it might have been worse. Right, he's been dumped but he's had his holiday and his fun and he's got friends waiting for him at home. That's all perfect. Splendid. He's a lucky guy.

Can Arthur boast all that? Okay, maybe he can cause he's a rich toff, but all things considered, Merlin's superior to all that.

Merlin's confidence supports him all the way to the airport and on the flight back home.

Where he finds that things can get worse. He establishes this when, after having spent two days comfortably sprawled on the armchair strategically placed in front of the telly, he's Merlin-napped by Gwaine, who, on pretext of needing a night out among pals, ambushes him into a veritable blind date.

Hints that have led Merlin to believe he's been tricked into one are:

1) Gwaine's excessive and manic enthusiasm at the prospect of spending the evening at the local  
2) Drea and Freya's presence – especially the latter since Freya notoriously disapproves of a) Merlin's local, b) Gwaine's libertine habits.  
3) Gwaine's disappearance – in the vein of The Flash – after having said, "Merlin, this is Gilli."

Gilli happens to be Merlin's age, or slightly younger, into IT, and a fan of Skype chats and Tolkien.

"Gwaine says you like elves."

"I like folklore," Merlin specifies, a bit put out. He's got nothing against Gilli but the fact that he doesn't know him, he's been trapped into a conversation with him, and the suspicion that Gilli seems to have been found for him on the basis of a series of ticks on a checklist.

"So you're into..."

"Legends and stuff," Merlin says. "I work at the Evening Gazette and basically I'm behind their web pages and stuff. When I'm off, I like to... delve into other things."

Gilli favours him with a smile that's half determined and half happy. "We could go to a convention together." He puts his hand on top of Merlin's.

"Look," says Merlin, doing his best not to shake Gilli's hand off. "I think you're a great guy but lately I've had to deal with a big fuckwit who sort of made me believe things and a bigger one..." He raises his voice because he's sure said second in command in the fuckwits mother-ship is still around and can hear him (unless he's shagging the barmaid behind the bar). "...Who's so controlling he thinks he can wave a wand..."

There's a raucous burst of laughter from the general direction of the bar counter.

Merlin reddens all over. "Not like that!" he shouts and finishes lamely, "And fix my life by going behind my back."

He makes Gilli angry, takes a punch for the Gilli's Pride team, and spends the rest of the evening at home nursing a bruise of gigantic proportions by applying a cold steak that should have been – if this world was kind – his lunch for the next day.

That Gwaine manages to lure him into another blind date is a measure of how sad and dysfunctional Merlin's life really is. Because Merlin is too soft on his friends and would do everything for them, especially the moment one of them – the usual suspect – comes up stating that he's met the love of his life down at the tennis club, which he frequents in the hopes of picking up nice girls covered in skimpy little flared skirts, and needs Merlin's help. "Stat."

"Life's not ER."

"Do you want me to spend my weekends glaring at the phone while loser music plays on?" asks Gwaine. "Do you really want that? I'll play all Eagle classics, I swear."

"And why would you need me on a date, Casanova?"

"Because she's not like other girls." Gwaine wags his eyebrows. "I mean she hit me on the nose with her racket, made me bleed , and was all apologetic, so I told her I'd forgive her if she went out with me and she was all, no, I don't know, until I mentioned it was casual and I'd be bringing my best mate and then she said yes."

"I'm not going to be your third wheel!" Merlin screeches, more than mildly outraged.

Gwaine pats his arm, stands up and ambles into the kitchen, coming back with a bottle of Merlin's absolute favourite beer. "Did I mention I've got an on-the-side agreement with Pete at the local and that I've got a case of this." He taps the side of the bottle. "All for you!" Gwaine has the guts to bat his eyelashes at Merlin.

"Nuh-uh." Merlin sucks in his lower lip, crosses his arms and shakes his head.

"Did I mention she's tall and blonde and has lovely--"

"That's enough. I can picture what's so lovely about her."

"Do you want me to grow emotionally stunted?" Gwaine settles in the armchair next to Merlin and pouts, looking for all the world like a kicked Schnauzer.

Merlin capitulates.

It turns out that Elena, the girl Gwaine has set his sights on, has a brother who's a year younger than she is, as blonde as she is, and whose name's Galahad.

Galahad looks as though he's just stepped out of a Renaissance painting, all blond curls, clear blue eyes and perpetually rosy cheeks. Perfect casting for the role of nativity angel if someone pasted wings onto his back.

He's also tall and shy and and never looks up from his plate but to flick glances at Merlin and blush. He's cute; it's not that he isn't, but Merlin doesn't much know what to do with him.

Though it's biting cold, they take a walk through the park and Gwaine and Elena, who's as clumsy as reported, vanish into thin air, leaving Merlin in the company of Cherubim Guy.

Cherubim Guy is very proper but for the time he leans a little too close as if casually going for a kiss that might get aborted should Merlin not pick up on the signal. A bit like the arm draped across a sofa thingy that might or might not turn into a petting session if the response from the partner is positive.

Sure of this, Merlin halts in his tracks and says, "You know, you're nice and polite and hot, but nothing's gonna happen."

Galahad's forehead gets creases all over. "But why?"

Merlin breathes out; he guesses he needs to be honest at this point. "Because I'm still thinking about someone else." And I'm not as sloshed as I was on New Year's Eve, he thinks, but doesn't say.

"Oh, Gwaine said..." Galahad hunches in on himself. "That you were free."

"And I am."

Galahad kicks at a conker, the parks fairy lights making him look young and soft around the edges.  
"Had it been going on long?"

Merlin wants to laugh because of course he's behaving like a tit and over someone he knew for a night and he's disappointing his friends and probably ruining his chances at having a good time. He takes it upon himself to tell the truth.

"No, not really. But I liked him. Lots. So it was a flash of a thing but it mattered to me. And now I don't feel like going down that road again." Merlin is probably rambling by this point, gesticulating widely so he can make his point. Perhaps there's no point to it all and that's why he's flailing and hoping Gwaine will come back and save him from this, but it's Galahad who does, for he smiles and says, "It's all right. I understand that. But I hope we can be friends?"

Over that question he and Merlin exchange phone numbers.

  
****

"Okay, thank you." The receptionist hangs up and Arthur crosses another number out. He's still got five on the list.

Leon ambles back into Arthur's office. He's not wearing his suit and tie because today is not a working day. Officially, the Camelot personnel is still on holiday. "Any luck?" he asks in that jovial tone of his that makes Arthur wonder if anyone can achieve it without attending self help or Zen classes.

"Well, I've only got his first name." Arthur wipes at his forehead and puts his pen down. "Those who haven't cut me down because they thought I was hoaxing them asked me for his surname and then assured me they couldn't locate a guest for me if I didn't know his family name."

"You could bribe them."

"I don't think that would turn out well."

Leon shrugs his shoulders and sits on the chair next to the filing cabinet. "And he hasn't rung either."

"No." Arthur rubs at his face.

"Arthur," says Leon, "I'll help you track him down if I can but you need to know that maybe this was just a one off for him."

"I know."

"And that it might be embarrassing once you find him and he has to spell it out for you."

"Yeah."

Leon scratches at his chin, tilting up an eyebrow. "But you still want to go ahead?"

Arthur needs Leon's help; Leon's unbeatable at doing things systematically. "I do."

Leon starts chuckling softly. "You really liked him, didn't you?"

Arthur stiffens, his face getting heated. "I enjoyed Merlin's company."

Leon seems to find that funny for he's slapping his thigh and fully laughing now. "That's the new code word for madly in love like Leo di Caprio in Titanic, is it?"

Arthur's lips twist sideways. "Don't be an idiot, Leon, and help me find Merlin."

Leon stands and moves over to the desk. He picks up Arthur's list and says, "I'll try the last ones; you try the ones that begin with S and T."

  
****

"So, tell me again why I had to drive you all the way to work?" Gwaine asks as he double-parks next to a Fiat Croma.

"Because today we poor employees of the Gazette get to meet the bigwigs."

Gwaine kills the engine. "And why's that so important?"

"Because," Merlin says. "If I'm not on time I could be fired by the Camelot people or by the editor in chief, numbskull."

Gwaine uses the rear-view mirror to fix his hair. "Who, that hot lady, Annis Carleon?"

"Gwaine," says Merlin, "I'd like to remind you that you're going out with Elena."

Gwaine puts his hand on his heart. "And that's why I'm not coming up with you. I'm an honest man."

Merlin shuts the door, tempted to give Gwaine the finger. He doesn't because Gwaine's been kind enough to drive him when Merlin's car is past hope of ever getting started and Will still nursing his broken leg. As Merlin ducks into the Gazette's building, Merlin waves at him.

He's got his heart in his throat as he runs up the stairs and makes it to the office itself.

Nerves close to the surface, he perches on the desk he uses when not working from home and goes through the notes he'd written down in case he was interviewed by his superiors. Merlin's better at doing things than making speeches and he's aware of this.

Merlin quite loves the Gazette, its tone, his tasks – Cedric and Mordred's hostility notwithstanding – and the fact it's a free paper. So he'd like to keep his job.

He's going over the bit about on-line editions and sensory overload caused by too much content on display, when Mrs Caerleon and Freya walk in followed by three or four suited gentlemen.

All the Gazette's employees stand up but for Merlin, whose eyes are still glued to his notepad and the sentence 'Oppressive bad ads don't tempt the reader to click."

Someone clears their throat, Mordred throws a pencil at him and Merlin falls off his perch on the desk, all the clutter that had been deposited upon it cascading down after him.

When Merlin looks up, covered in office debris, it's to meet Arthur's eyes.

"Arthur!" Merlin says, a little bit choked as the rush of memories makes his blood pump faster and gather on his cheeks and neck.

"Merlin."

"That would be Mr Pendragon," Mark from accounting says.

As he slumps on the floor, bits of paper sticking to him in the most haphazard fashion, Merlin realises two things: that Arthur's the owner of Camelot and therefore Merlin's new boss – by way of Freya, by way of Annis and then the shareholders at Camelot – and that, given the way his face feels as hot as the air currents blowing over the Sahara desert during the dry season, everybody must have guessed that Merlin's embarrassed.

There's a lot he'd like to say at this point, but the words dry in his mouth. 'You chucked me without a 'hey, good bye' is on top of the list, as are the words, 'I'm totally above all of this. So far above I've floated past the stratosphere to come live on the moon.’

He might have just babbled incoherently and regained a seat, but he hears nothing else from Arthur.

Mrs Caerleon says, "I thought you wanted a tour of the premises, sir."

"Why, yes, indeed," says Arthur, voice tight. It's similar to the tone he'd used to berate Merlin when he'd sprayed chocolate all over him.

"Then if you'll follow me," says Mrs Caerleon while Freya explains about the boost in on-line hits.

While Merlin's pointedly not looking at him, Arthur walks away.

Hands clumsy, Merlin picks everything up and dumps it on his desk. He tries to sort out all his notes and the mess on it, when Mordred saunters over and asks, "What was that all about?"

"What?" Merlin painstakingly busies himself with his notes; it doesn't matter that the last page happens to have ended up on top. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Mordred cackles; there's no other word for it. "Come on. You know the new owner."

Merlin pinches his lips.

"Merlin, care to tell me why you know the owner?"

Merlin has had enough. He spins around so his gathered notes take flight again and rain on him like snowflakes. "Honestly, no, Mordred." He flails. "Why don't you march over to your desk and re-do the header for the cinema and theatre section?"

Mordred's eyes narrow; there's almost a murderous light in them. Merlin starts thinking about how to tackle Mordred in case it becomes necessary when he shifts to the left and bumps right into a solid wall of human flesh. And muscle. He focuses more and sees it's Arthur.

Mordred scarpers.

Arthur grabs him by the elbow, looking all smiley and dopey now as opposed to the professional aura from before. "Could you step out with me for a moment?"

Merlin's heart is a bit of a traitor and does its worst to beat all out of tempo. Merlin hardens his face and says, "No."

Arthur looks stricken and lets Merlin go. "Why not?"

"Because, you cabbage head," Merlin hisses though he'd much rather raise his voice, "you left! Not even a 'Bye, Merlin. It's been nice'."

Arthur's features twist and do odd things as his expression goes from hurt to angry to shell shocked to puppy-like hopefulness in a few beats. He crowds closer again and whispers, "Would you like to step out so we can discuss this?"

Merlin shakes his head. "No," he says." He wags his head for good measure. "You might think it's all nice as fuck but you tramped all over my h-- ego back there and I'd rather not do all that again. It's not healthy."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't like it when you left. I didn't want to like you when you left."

"You like me."

Merlin snorts. "You'd choose to pick up on that, of course." He makes the mistake of looking at Arthur then and a wave of longing works its way through his body in the shape of small shivers. He remembers; he remembers Arthur's mouth on him and touching him and feeling warm and appreciated. He has perfect recall of the connection he thinks they had. It must have shown in his eyes or something because Arthur decides it's okay to manhandle him out of the offices and onto the mezzanine.

"What the hell, Arthur!"

"I thought you didn't want to hear from me again."

This doesn't really compute. "What?"

"Because I left you my number and wrote you to call me and you never did."

Blood rushes into Merlin's ears producing a booming noise. "There was no note. You didn't leave me any message."

"I did!" Arthur says, throwing his arms up and waving them like flags. "Propped the note up against the coffee machine."

"There was nothing nowhere!"

Arthur smiles like a loon as though he hasn't quite got the finer points of Merlin's grievance. "But if you didn't find it then you didn't not call because you didn't..." He makes a sign with his hand that is half incomprehensible and might have been lewd. "It wasn't because you don't like me."

The way Arthur looks when he says that, a cross between a school boy and a Disney hero, makes it difficult to process everything at first but Arthur flies past the hurdle by kissing Merlin soundly on the lips, rucking up Merlin's ironed shirt – purposely worn to look professional on this oh-so-important day – and licking into his mouth like they're teens and Arthur's just made himself cosy on the sofa while their parents are out.

"Wait," Merlin pants wetly into Arthur's neck. "You didn't mean to disappear without a trace?"

"No," says Arthur, throatily, purring against Merlin's neck. Merlin will have to revise the puppy dog simile. "No, I meant to spend the holidays with you – in bed preferably." Arthur blushes a nice shade of rosy pink that suits him very well.

He says, "Merlin, I wanted to stay. I left a note. I've called every Zurich hotel in the hope of finding you and got hung up on, told I couldn't be put through if I didn't have your family name, or simply laughed at."

"You called every hotel in Zurich?"

Arthur kisses the side of Merlin's neck, swiping a hand up his flank and tickling his ribs. "Yeah. I sicced Leon on you, making him ring loads of hotels. On Boxing day. Paid him extra. And I phoned the airline and.... Bottom line is I had a work emergency but I'd like to... have a chance with you."

Merlin starts grinning and he knows it's not sexy, but he feels light and daring, as if all things have slid into place, and his original judgement call was right as his feelings – churny, stormy, deep, mind-blowing – for Arthur have always been right. "Then you're not a cold hearted wanker."

"Why, Merlin. I'm pleased to hear that."

Merlin puts tiny little kisses to Arthur's mouth., thinking that if he's found Arthur again it's because of the magic of Twelfth Night.

The End


End file.
